TKe 

LONG  TRICK 


BARTIMEUS 


i 


THE  LONG  TRICK 
BY  "BARTIMEUS" 


THE  LONG  TRICK 


BY  "BARTIMEUS" 

AUTHOR  OF  "A  TALL  SHIP,"  "NAVAL 
OCCASIONS,"  ETC. 


"Much  of  what  you  have  done,  as  far  as 
the  public  eye  is  concerned,  may  almost  be 
said  to  have  been  done  in  the  twilight" — 
EXTRACT  FROM  ADDRESS  DELIVERED  BY  THE 
PRIME  MINISTER  ON  BOARD  THE  FLEET 
FLAGSHIP,  AUGUST,  1915. 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1917, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO  ONE 

CHUNKS 

WHO,  IN  MOMENTS  OF  FRENZY,  IS  CALLED 

HUNKS 

AND  ANSWERS   READILY   TO 

TUNKS,  TINKS  or  TONKS 

THIS  BOOK  IS  INSCRIBED 


• 


FOREWORD 

DEAR  N  AND  M, 

This  is  the  first  opportunity  I  have  had  of  an- 
swering your  letter,  although  I  am  hardly  to  blame 
since  you  chose  to  write  anonymously  and  leave  me 
with  no  better  clue  to  your  address  than  the  Tun- 
bridge  Wells  postmark. 

Fee!  Fi!  Fo!  Fum!  I  am  sorry  about  Torps, 
though.  I  admit  his  death  was  a  mistake,  and  I 
fancy  my  Publisher  thought  so  too:  but  we  cannot 
very  well  bring  him  to  life  again,  like  Sherlock 
Holmes.  So  please  cheer  up,  and  remember  that 
there  are  just  as  many  fine  fellows  in  the  ink-pot 
as  ever  came  out  of  it. 

I  have  borne  in  mind  the  final  paragraph  of  your 
letter,  which  said,  "We  do  beseech  you  not  to  kill 
the  India-rubber  Man/'  In  fact,  I  originally  meant 
him  to  be  the  hero  of  this  book.  But  as  the  book 
progressed  I  found  the  melancholy  conviction  grow- 
ing on  me  that  the  India-rubber  Man  had  become 

vii 


viii  FOREWORD 

infernally  dull.  A  pair  of  cynical  bachelors  like  you 
will,  I  know,  attribute  this  to  marriage  and  poor 
Betty.  For  my  part  I  am  inclined  to  put  it  down 
to  advancing  years. 

I  have  just  finished  the  book,  and,  turning  over 
the  pages,  found  myself  wondering  how  you  will 
like  it.  It  has  been  written  in  so  many  different  moods 
and  places  and  noises  and  temperatures  that  the 
general  effect  is  rather  patchwork.  But,  after  all, 
it  was  written  chiefly  for  the  amusement  of  two 
people,  and  (as  I  believe  all  story-books  ought  to 
be  written)  out  of  some  curiosity  on  the  Author's 
part  to  know  "what  happened  next." 

Thus,  you  see,  I  strive  to  disarm  all  critics  at 
the  outset  by  the  assumption  of  an  ingenuous  indif- 
ference to  anything  they  can  say.  But  there  is  one 
portion  of  the  book  on  which  I  have  expended  so 
much  thought  and  care  that  I  am  willing  to  defy 
criticism  on  the  subject.  I  refer  to  the  Dedication. 

You  probably  skip  Dedications,  but  they  interest 
me,  and  I  have  studied  them  a  good  deal.  They 
are  generally  arranged  in  columns  like  untidy  addi- 
tion sums,  and  no  two  lines  are  the  same  length. 
This  is  very  important.  At  the  end  you  arrive,  as 


FOREWORD  ix 

it  were  by  a  series  of  stepping-stones,  at  the  climax. 
And  there  you  are. 

No.     Let  the  critics  say  what  they  will  about 
the  book:  but  I  hold  that  the  Dedication  is  It. 

Yours  sincerely, 


OCTOBER,  1917. 


CONTENTS 

FOREWORD vii 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     BACK  FROM  THE  LAND      ...  15 

II.     THE  "NAVY  SPECIAL"        ...  33 

III.  ULTIMA  THULE 50 

IV.  WAR  BABIES  ......  69 

V.     UNCLE  BILL 92 

VI.    WET  BOBS 114 

VII.     CARRYING  ON 133 

VIII.     "ARMA  VIRUMQUE  .  .  ."  .       .  153 

IX.     "SWEETHEARTS  AND  WIVES"    .       .  170 

X.     THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  MIST      .      .  184 

XL    THE  AFTERMATH 205 

XII.     "GOOD  HUNTING"       ....  222 

XIII.  SPELL-O! 248 

XIV.  INTO  THE  WAY  OF  PEACE  .  268 


XI 


NOTE 

The  Chapters  headed  uWet  Bobs"  and 
"  Carrying  On"  appeared  originally  in 
Blackwood's  Magazine  and  are  included  in 
the  book  by  kind  permission  of  the  Editor, 


THE  LONG  TRICK 


THE  LONG  TRICK 


CHAPTER  I 
BACK  FROM  THE  LAND 

TOWARDS  eight  o'clock  the  fog  that  had  hung 
threateningly  over  the  City  all  the  afternoon 
descended  like  a  pall. 

It  was  a  mild  evening  in  February,  and  inside  the 
huge  echoing  vault  of  King's  Cross  station  the 
shaded  arc  lamps  threw  little  pools  of  light  along 
the  departure  platform  where  the  Highland  Express 
stood.  The  blinds  of  the  carriage  windows  were 
already  drawn,  but  here  and  there  a  circle  of  sub- 
dued light  strayed  out  and  was  engulfed  almost  at 
once  by  the  murky  darkness.  Sounds  out  of  the 
unseen  reached  the  ear  muffled  and  confused:  a  motor 
horn  hooted  near  the  entrance,  and  quite  close  at 
hand  a  horse's  hoofs  clattered  and  rang  on  the 
cobbled  paving-stones.  The  persistent  hiss  of 
escaping  steam  at  the  far  end  of  the  station  seemed 
to  fill  the  air  until  it  was  presently  drowned  by  the 
ear-piercing  screech  of  an  engine:  high  up  in  the 
darkness  ahead  one  of  a  bright  cluster  of  red  lights 


15 


.•,i6;/;  •':;;;•':;  THS  LONG  TRICK 

holding  their  own  against  the  fog,  changed  to  green. 
The  whistle  stopped  abruptly,  and  the  voice  of  a 
boy,  passing  along  the  crowded  platform,  claimed 
all  Sound  for  its  own. 

"Chor-or-or-clicks!"  he  cried  in  a  not  unmusical 
jodelling  treble,  "Chorclicks! — Cigarettes!" 

The  platform  was  thronged  by  bluejackets  and 
marines,  for  on  this  particular  evening  the  period 
of  leave,  granted  by  some  battleship  in  the  North, 
had  expired.  They  streamed  out  of  refreshment 
rooms  and  entrance  halls,  their  faces  lit  for  a 
moment  as  they  passed  under  successive  arc  lights, 
crowding  round  the  carriage  doors  where  their 
friends  and  relations  gathered  in  leave-taking.  Most 
of  them  carried  little  bundles  tied  up  in  black  silk 
handkerchiefs  and  paper  parcels  whose  elusive  con- 
tents usually  appeared  to  take  a  leguminous  form, 
and  something  of  the  traditional  romance  of  their 
calling  came  with  them  out  of  the  blackness  of  that 
February  night.  It  was  reflected  in  the  upturned 
admiring  faces  of  their  women-folk,  and  acknowl- 
edged by  some  of  the  younger  men  themselves,  with 
the  adoption  of  an  air  of  studied  recklessness. 

Some  wore  the  head-gear  of  enraptured  civilian 
acquaintances  and  sang  in  undertones  of  unrequited 
love.  Others  stopped  in  one  of  the  friendly  circles 
of  light  to  pass  round  bottled  beer,  until  an  elderly 
female,  bearing  tracts,  scattered  them  into  the  shad- 
ows. They  left  her  standing,  slightly  bewildered, 
with  the  empty  bottle  in  her  hands.  She  had  the 


BACK  FROM  THE  LAND  17 

air,  for  all  the  world,  of  a  member  of  the  audience 
suddenly  abandoned  on  a  conjurer's  stage. 

In  the  shelter  of  one  of  the  great  pillars  that 
rose  up  into  the  darkness  a  bearded  light  o'  love 
stopped  and  emptied  his  pockets  of  their  silver  and 
coppers  into  the  hands  of  the  human  derelict  that  had 
been  his  companion  through  the  past  week.  '  'Ere 
you  are,  Sally,"  he  said,  "take  what's  left.  You  ain't 
'arf  been  a  bad  ole  sort,  mate,"  and  kissed  her  and 
turned  away  as  she  slipped  back  into  the  night  where 
she  belonged. 

Farther  along  in  the  crowd  an  Ordinary  Seaman, 
tall  and  debonair  and  sleek  of  hair,  bade  osculatory 
farewell  to  a  mother,  an  aunt,  a  fiancee  and  two 
sisters. 

"  'Ere,"  finally  interrupted  his  chum,  "  'ere,  Alf, 
where  do  I  come  in?" 

"You  carry  on  an'  kiss  Auntie,"  replied  his  friend, 
and  applied  himself  to  his  fiancee's  pretty  upturned 
mouth.  This  the  chum  promptly  did,  following  up 
the  coup,  amid  hysterical  laughter  and  face-slapping, 
by  swiftly  embracing  the  mother  and  sisters. 

"You  sailors!"  said  the  friend's  mother  delight- 
edly, straightening  her  hat. 

"Don  Jewans,  all  of  'em,"  confirmed  the  aunt, 
recovering  the  power  of  speech  of  which  a  temporary 
displacement  of  false  teeth  had  robbed  her.  "Glad 
there  wasn't  no  sailors  down  our  way  when  7  was  a 
girl,  or  I  shouldn't  be  'ere  now."  A  sally  greeted  by 
renewed  merriment. 


1 8  THE  LONG  TRICK 

Indifferent  to  the  laughter  and  horse-play  near 
them  a  grave-faced  Petty  Officer  stood  by  the  door 
of  his  carriage  saying  good-bye  to  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren before  returning  to  another  nine  months'  exile. 
A  little  boy  in  a  sailor-suit  clung  to  the  woman's  skirt 
and  gazed  admiringly  into  the  face  of  the  man  he 
had  been  taught  to  call  "Daddie" — the  jovial  visitor 
who  came  to  stay  with  them  for  a  week  once  a  year  or 
so,  after  whose  departure  his  mother  always  cried  so 
bitterly,  writer  of  the  letters  she  pressed  against  her 
cheek  and  locked  away  in  the  yellow  tin  box  under  the 
bed.  .  .  . 

She  held  another  child  in  her  arms — a  wide- 
eyed  mite  that  stared  up  into  the  murk  overhead 
with  preternatural  solemnity.  Their  talk,  of  an  in- 
articulate simplicity,  is  no  concern  of  ours.  The 
little  group  has  been  recorded  because  of  the  woman. 
Mechanically  rocking  the  child  in  her  arms,  with  her 
neat  clothes  and  brave  little  bits  of  finery,  with,  above 
all,  her  anxious,  pathetic  smile  as  she  looked  up  into 
the  face  of  her  man,  she  stood  there  for  a  symbol  of 
all  that  the  warring  Navy  demands  of  its  women-folk. 

Beyond  them,  where  the  first-class  carriages  and 
sleeping  saloons  began,  the  platform  became  quieter 
and  less  crowded.  Several  Naval  and  one  or  two 
Military  officers  walked  to  and  fro,  or  stood  at  the 
doors  of  their  compartments  superintending  the  stow- 
age of  their  luggage ;  a  little  way  back  from  the  light 
thrown  from  the  carriage  windows,  two  figures,  a 
man  and  a  girl,  stood  talking  in  low  voices. 


'  BACK  FROM  THE  LAND  19 

Presently  the  man  stepped  under  one  of  the  over- 
hanging lamps  and  consulted  his  wrist-watch.  The 
light  of  the  arc-lamp,  falling  on  the  shoulder-straps 
of  his  uniform  great-coat,  indicated  his  rank,  which 
was  that  of  Lieutenant-Commander. 

"We've  got  five  minutes  more,"  he  said. 

The  girl  nodded. 

"I  know.  I've  been  ticking  off  the  minutes  for 
the  last  week' — in  my  head,  I  mean."  She  smiled, 
a  rather  wan  little  smile.  Her  companion  slipped 
his  arm  inside  hers,  and  together  they  walked  to- 
wards the  train. 

"Come  and  look  at  my  cabin,  Betty,  and — let's 
see  everything's  there." 

He  helped  her  into  the  corridor,  and,  following, 
encountered  the  uniformed  attendant.  The  man  held 
a  notebook  in  his  hand. 

"Are  you  Mr.  Standish,  sir?"  he  inquired,  con- 
sulting his  notebook. 

"That's  my  name  as  a  rule,"  was  the  reply.  "At 
the  moment  though,  it's  Mud — spelt  M-U-D. 
Which  is  my  abode?" 

"This  way,  sir."  The  attendant  led  the  way 
along  the  corridor  and  pushed  open  the  door  of  the 
narrow  sleeping  compartment.  "Here  you  are,  sir." 
He  eyed  the  officer's  companion  with  a  professionally 
reassuring  air,  as  much  as  to  say,  "He'll  be  all  right 
in  there,  don't  you  worry."  It  certainly  looked  very 
snug  and  comfortable  with  the  shaded  light  above 
the  neat  bunk  and  dark  upholstery. 


20  THE  LONG  TRICK 

"Ah,"  said  the  traveller,  uwe  just  wanted  to — er 
— see  everything  was  all  right." 

"Quite  so,  sir.  Plenty  of  time — lady  not  trav- 
elling, I  presume?  I'll  come  along  when  we're  due 
to  start  and  let  you  know."  He  closed  the  door 
with  unobtrusive  tact. 

The  lady  in  question  surveyed  the  apartment  with 
the  tender  scrutiny  of  a  mother  about  to  relinquish  her 
offspring  to  the  rough  usage  of  an  unfamiliar  world. 

"Bunje,  darling,"  she  said,  and  bent  and  brushed 
the  pillow  with  her  lips.  "That's  so  that  you'll 
sleep  tight  and  not  let  the  bogies  bite."  She  smiled 
into  her  husband's  eyes  rather  tremulously.  "And 
take  care  of  yourself  as  hard  as  ever  you  can.  Re- 
member your  leg  and  your  poor  old  head."  His 
cap  lay  on  the  bunk,  and  she  raised  a  slender  fore- 
finger to  trace  the  outline  of  the  shiny  scar  above 
his  temple.  "I've  mended  you  so  nicely." 

"I'll  take  care  of  myself  all  right,  and  you  won't 
cry,  will  you,  Betty,  when  I've  gone?  Promise — 
say:  'Sure-as-I'm-standing-here-I-won't-cry,'  or  I'll 
call  the  guard!" 

"I — I  can't  promise  not  to  cry  a  tiny  bit,"  fal- 
tered Betty,  "but  I  promise  to  try  not  to  cry  much. 
And  you  will  write  and  let  me  know  when  I  can 
come  North  and  be  near  you,  won't  you  ?"  A  sudden 
thought  struck  her.  "Bunje,  will  they  censor  your 
letters?  How  awful!  And  mine  too?  Because  I 
don't  think  I  could  bear  it  if  anybody  but  you  read 
my  letters." 


BACK  FROM  THE  LAND  21 

"No,  they  won't  read  'em,"  reassured  her  hus- 
band. "At  least,  not  yours.  And  if  mine  have  to 
be  read,  the  fellow  who  reads  'em  just  skims  through 
'em  and  doesn't  really  take  in  anything.  I've  had  to 
do  it,  an'  I  know." 

"Still,  I'll  hate  it,"  said  Betty  woefully,  and  started 
at  a  light  tap  at  the  door.  "Passengers  are  taking 
their  seats,  sir,"  said  the  warning  voice  outside. 

Doors  were  banging  and  farewells  sounding 
down  the  length  of  the  train  when  Betty  stepped 
out  on  to  the  platform.  A  curly-headed  subaltern 
of  a  Highland  regiment  who  had  been  in  possession 
of  the  door  surrendered  it,  and,  catching  a  glimpse 
of  Betty's  face,  returned  to  his  compartment  thank- 
ing all  his  Gods  that  he  was  a  bachelor.  A  whistle 
sounded  out  of  the  gloom  at  the  far  end  of  the  long 
train,  and  a  green  light  waved  above  the  heads  of  the 
leave-takers.  A  faltering  cheer  broke  out,  gathered 
volume,  and,  as  the  couplings  tautened  with  a  jerk, 
came  an  answering  roar  from  the  closely  packed 
carriages. 

Standish  bent  down.     "Good-bye,  Bet "  and 

for  a  moment  lips  and  fingers  met  and  clung.     The 
train  was  moving  slowly. 

"God  bless  you!"  she  said  with  a  queer  little 
gasp,  and  stepped  back  into  one  of  the  circles  of 
subdued  light. 

For  a  few  seconds  he  saw  her  thus,  a  slim,  girlish, 
fur-clad  figure  standing  with  her  hands  at  her  side 
like  a  schoolgirl  in  class,  her  face  rather  white  and 


22  THE  LONG  TRICK 

her  lips  compressed:  then  a  bend  hid  her  and  the 
tumult  of  cheering  and  farewell  died. 

"Good  on  you,  little  girl,"  he  muttered,  and  with- 
drew his  head  and  shoulders  to  fumble  fiercely  for 
his  pipe.  Courage  in  the  woman  he  loves  will  move 
a  man  as  never  will  her  tears.  There  is  also  grati- 
tude in  his  heart. 

He  retraced  his  steps  to  his  sleeping-compart- 
ment and  was  aware  of  the  faint  fragrance  of  violets 
still  lingering  in  the  air.  She  had  been  wearing 
some  that  he  had  bought  her  late  that  afternoon.  .  .  . 

He  sat  down  on  the  bunk  and  fervently  pressed 
the  tobacco  into  the  bowl  of  his  pipe  with  his  thumb. 
"Oh,  damn-a-horse !"  he  said.  For  a  moment  he 
sat  thus  sucking  his  unlit  pipe  and  staring  hard  at 
the  carpet,  and  not  until  it  sounded  a  second  time 
did  a  knock  at  the  door  of  the  compartment  cause 
him  to  raise  his  head  and  say,  "Come  in !" 

The  door  opened,  and  a  clean-shaven,  smiling 
countenance,  followed  by  a  pair  of  broad  shoulders, 
appeared  cautiously  in  the  opening.  Standish  stared 
at  the  apparition,  and  then  rose  with  a  grin  of  wel- 
come. 

"Why !"  he  said,  "Podgie,  of  all  people !  Come 
in,  you  old  blighter!" 

The  visitor  entered.  "How  goes  it,  Bunje?"  he 
said.  "I  saw  you  with  your  missus  just  now,  so  I 
hid — I'm  in  the  next  cabin."  He  indicated  the  ad- 
joining compartment  with  a  nod. 

"Sit  down,  old  lad.    What  are  you  doing  here? 


BACK  FROM  THE  LAND  23 

I  thought —  The  speaker  broke  off  abruptly, 
and  his  glance  strayed  involuntarily  to  the  ground. 
The  new-comer  nodded,  and,  sitting  down  on  the 
bunk,  pushed  his  cap  back  from  his  forehead. 

'That's  right."  He  extended  his  left  leg.  "Cork 
foot.  What  d'you  go  on  it,  Bunje,  eh?"  They  con- 
templated the  acquisition  in  silence  for  a  moment.  UI 
was  in  a  destroyer,  you  know,"  pursued  the  speaker, 
uand  one  of  Fritz's  shore  batteries  on  the  Belgian 
coast  got  our  range  by  mistake  one  day  at  dawn. 
Dusted  us  down  properly."  He  extended  his  leg 
again.  "Hence  the  milk  in  the  coco-nut,  as  you 
might  say.  However,  we  had  a  makee-learn  doctor 
on  board — Surgeon-Probationer,  straight  out  of  the 
egg,  and  no  end  of  a  smart  lad:  he  dished  me  up 
in  fine  style.  I  went  to  hospital  for  a  bit,  and  they 
gave  me  six  months'  full-pay  sick  leave — not  a  bad 
old  firm,  the  Admiralty." 

"What  then,"  asked  the  other,  "invalided?" 

The  visitor  nodded.  "But  about  a  month  ago  I 
fell-in  and  said  I  couldn't  kick  my  heels  any  longer. 
Hadn't  two  to  kick,  in  point  of  fact!"  He  laughed 
softly  at  the  grim  jest.  "So  they  lushed  me  up  to 
this  outfit,  and  gave  me  a  job  as  King's  Messenger. 
I'm  carrying  despatches  between  the  Admiralty  and 
the  Fleet  Flagship.  Better'n  doing  nothing,"  he 
added  half-apologetically. 

"Quite,"  agreed  Standish  gravely:  none  knew 
better  than  he  how  beloved  had  been  the  career  thus 
abruptly  terminated.  He  wondered,  as  he  met  the 


24  THE  LONG  TRICK 

speaker's  smiling  eyes  with  a  sympathetic  grin, 
whether  he  himself  could  have  carried  it  off  like 
this.  "But  it  was  rotten  luck  —  I'm  -  " 

The  King's  Messenger  rose.  "I've  got  a  drop 
of  whisky  somewhere  in  my  bag,"  he  interrupted. 
"Come  along  in  there  :  I  can't  leave  my  despatches  — 
we'll  have  a  yarn." 

He  limped  through  the  doorway,  steadying  him- 
self with  his  hands  against  the  rocking  of  the  train. 
Standish  followed.  Never  again,  he  reflected,  would 
he  follow  those  broad  shoulders  in  a  U.S.  "Forward 
rush"  to  the  familiar  slogan  of  "Feet  —  forwards  — 


"You  were  wounded,  too,  last  spring,  weren't 
you?"  queried  the  King's  Messenger,  burrowing  in 
his  suit-case  for  his  flask.  "Squat  down  at  the  end 
there  —  got  your  glass?"  He  measured  out  two  por- 
tions of  whisky  and  from  the  rack  produced  a  bottle 
of  soda.  "Say  when  ..." 

Standish  nodded.  "Thanks  —  whoa  !  Yes,  I  got 
a  couple  of  'cushy'  wounds  and  three  months' 
leave." 

The  other  turned,  helping  himself  to  soda-water. 
"Lor',  yes,  and  you  got  spliced,  too,  Bunje!"  He 
contemplated  the  Benedict  over  the  rim  of  his  tum- 
bler with  the  whimsical  faint  curiosity  with  which 
the  bachelor  Naval  Officer  regards  one  of  his  breth- 
ren who  has  passed  beyond  the  Veil. 

"Yes."  For  a  moment  Standish  assumed  a 
thoughtful  expression.  Then  he  looked  up,  smiling. 


BACK  FROM  THE  LAND  25 

"What  about  you,  Podgie?  Isn't  it  about  time  you 
toed  the  line?" 

The  King's  Messenger  shook  his  head.  "No. 
It  doesn't  come  my  way."  His  eyes  rested  contem- 
platively on  his  outstretched  leg.  uNot  very  likely 
to  either.  ...  How  d'you  like  the  idea  of  joining 
up  with  the  'Great  Silent'  again  after  the  flesh-pots 
and  what-not?" 

For  the  second  time  he  had  changed  the  conver- 
sation almost  abruptly. 

Standish  lit  his  pipe.  "What's  it  like  up  there 
now?"  He  jerked  his  head  in  the  direction  in  which 
they  were  travelling.  "How  are  they  sticking  it? 
Have  you  been  up  lately?  I  haven't  been  in  the 
Grand  Fleet  yet." 

"Yes,  I  was  up — let's  see,  last  week.  Oh,  they're 
all  right.  A  bit  bored,  of  course,  but  full  of  ginger. 
They  go  out  and  try  to  coax  Fritz  to  come  out  and 
play  from  time  to  time.  Fritz  says  'Not  in  these 
trousers,  I  don't  think,'  and  then  they  go  home  again, 
dodging  'tin  fish'*  and  raking  up  Fritz's  'warts'f 
out  of  the  Swept  Channels.  Talking  of  'warts'  re- 
minds me  of  a  yarn  going  round  last  time  I  was  up 
— it's  a  chestnut  now,  but  you  may  not  have  heard 
it.  One  of  the  mine-layers  nipped  down  in  a  fog 
and  laid  a  mine-field  off  the  mouth  of  the  Ems.  It 
was  a  tricky  bit  of  work,  and  it  seems  to  have 
touched  up  the  Padre's  nerves  a  bit,  because  on  the 
way  back  next  morning,  when  he  was  reading  prayers 

*Torpedoes.  fMines. 


26  THE  LONG  TRICK 

— you  know  the  bit  about  'encompassed  the  waters 
with  bounds'? — he  said,  'Encompassed  the  bounders 
with  warts,'  which  was  just  what  they  had  done, 
pretty  effectively!" 

The  door  to  the  corridor  was  half-open,  and  a 
tall  figure  in  Naval  uniform  who  was  passing  at 
that  moment  glanced  in,  hesitated,  and  filled  the 
doorway  with  his  bulk.  A  slow  smile  spread  over 
his  face  and  showed  his  white,  even  teeth.  It  was 
a  very  infectious  grin. 

"How  goes  it,  Podgie?"  he  said  quietly. 

The  King's  Messenger  looked  up.  "Hallo !"  he 
retorted.  Then  came  recognition.  "Thorogood, 
surely!  Come  in,  old  lad.  What  are  you 
doing  aboard  the  lugger — D'you  know  Stan- 
dish?" 

The  new-comer  nodded  a  greeting,  acknowledg- 
ing the  introduction. 

"Station-mates  in  the  East  Indies,  weren't  we?" 
said  Standish. 

"That's  right,"  replied  the  other.  "I  remember 
you :  we  were  both  in  camp  together — way  back  in 
the  'Naughty  Naughts.'  We  used  to  call  you  the 
India-rubber  Man — Bunje  for  short." 

Standish  laughed.  "They  do  still,"  he  said, 
"mine  own  familiar  friends." 

"Have  a  drop  of  whisky,"  interrupted  the  King's 
Messenger.  "  'Fraid  I  haven't  got  a  glass " 

The  visitor  hesitated.  "Well,  I've  got  old 
Mouldy  Jakes  in  my  compartment.  Can  I  bring  him 


BACK  FROM  THE  LAND  27 

along:  the  old  thing  may  get  lonely.     He  was  in 
your  term  in  the  Britannia,  wasn't  he?" 

uHe  was.  Fetch  him  along,"  said  the  King's 
Messenger.  "Standish  wants  to  know  all  about  life 
in  the  Grand  Fleet.  You  two  ought  to  be  able  to 
enlighten  him  a  bit  between  you." 

Thorogood  contemplated  the  India-rubber  Man 
thoughtfully. 

"Just  joining  up  ?  Mouldy  and  I  have  been  there 
since  January,  '15 — I'll  fetch  him." 

The  speaker  vanished  and  returned  a  moment 
later  with  a  companion  who  wore  a  Lieutenant's 
uniform,  and  carried  a  tooth-glass  in  his  hand. 
His  lean,  rather  sallow  face  relaxed  for  an  instant 
into  a  smile  during  the  process  of  introduction,  and 
then  resumed  a  mask-like  gravity.  He  up-ended  a  suit- 
case, sat  down  and  silently  eyed  the  others  in  turn. 

"What  have  you  two  been  doing?"  asked  the 
King's  Messenger.  "Been  on  leave?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Thorogood.  "I  met  Mouldy  this 
morning,  and  we  had  a  day  in  town  together." 

"Brave  man !  I  should  be  sorry  to  have  had  such 
a  responsibility.  What  did  you  do?" 

"Well,  we  lunched  with  my  Uncle  Bill  at  his 
club " 

"That  was  nice  for  Uncle  Bill — what  then?" 

"Uncle  Bill  had  to  go  to  the  Admiralty,  so  I 
took  Mouldy  for  a  walk  in  St.  James's  Park" — the 
speaker  contemplated  his  friend  sorrowfully — "and  I 
lost  him." 


28  THE  LONG  TRICK 

The  King's  Messenger  laughed.  "What  hap- 
pened to  you,  Mouldy?" 

The  officer  addressed  put  his  empty  glass  between 
his  knees  and  proceeded  to  fill  a  cherry-wood  pipe 
of  villainous  aspect  from  a  Korean  oiled-silk  tobacco 
pouch. 

"Took  a  flapper  to  the  movies,"  was  the  grave 
and  somewhat  unexpected  reply. 

Thorogood,  lounging  in  any  easy  attitude  against 
the  door,  took  up  the  tale  of  gallantry.  "Apparently 
the  star  film  of  the  afternoon  was  'Britain's  Sea- 
Dogs,  or  Jack-Tars  at  War,'  and  that  appears  to 
have  been  too  much  for  our  little  Lord  Fauntleroy. 
He  slipped  out  unbeknownst  to  the  fairy,  and  I  found 
him  at  the  club  an  hour  later  playing  billiards  with 
the  marker." 

The  cavalier  relaxed  not  a  muscle  of  his  sphinx- 
like  gravity.  "Never  know  what  to  do  with  myself 
on  leave,"  he  observed  in  sepulchral  tones.  "Always 
glad  to  get  back.  Like  the  fellow  in  the  Bastille — 
what?"  He  raised  his  empty  tumbler  and  scanned 
the  light  through  it  with  sombre  interest.  "Long 
ship,  this,  James." 

The  phrase  is  an  old  Navy  one,  and  signifies 
much  the  same  thing  as  the  Governor  of  North 
Carolina  said  to  the  Governor  of  South  Caro- 
lina. 

"Sorry,"  apologised  the  host.  "There  isn't  any 
more  soda,  I'm  afraid,  but " 

"Don't  mind  water,"  said  his  guest,  diluting  his 


BACK  FROM  THE  LAND  29 

tot  from  the  water-bottle.  He  turned  to  the  India- 
rubber  Man. 

"What  ship're  you  going  to?"  he  asked. 

Standish  named  the  ship  to  which  he  had  been 
appointed.  The  other  took  a  sip  of  his  whisky  and 
water  and  nodded  with  the  air  of  one  whose  worst 
misgivings  had  been  confirmed. 

"I  remember  now:  I  saw  your  appointment. 
James  and  I  belong  to  her.  We're  going  to  be 
shipmates,  then."  He  blew  a  cloud  of  smoke  ceil- 
ingwards.  "It's  all  right  in  one  of  those  new  ships : 
no  scuttles:  tinned  air  and  electric  light  between 
decks:  wake  up  every  morning  feeling's  if  you'd  been 

gassed.  An'  the  turrets "  He  plunged  gloomily 

into  technicalities  that  conveyed  the  impression  that 
the  interior  of  a  turret  of  the  latest  design  was  the 
short  cut  to  a  lunatic  asylum.  "I'm  the  Assistant 
Gunnery  Lieutenant  in  our  hooker,  and  I  tell  you  it's 
a  dirty  business." 

"What  d'you  do  for  exercise?"  queried  the  India- 
rubber  Man  when  the  Assistant  Gunnery  Lieutenant 
lapsed  again  into  gloomy  silence. 

"Plenty  of  that,"  said  Thorogood.  "Deck-hockey 
and  medicine-ball — you  mark  out  a  tennis-court  on 
the  quarter-deck,  you  know,  and  heave  a  9-lb.  ball 
over  a  5-ft.  net — foursomes.  Fine  exercise."  He 
spoke  with  the  grave  enthusiasm  of  the  athlete,  to 
whom  the  attainment  of  bodily  fitness  is  very  near 
to  godliness  indeed.  "You  can  get  a  game  of 
rugger  when  the  weather  is  good  enough  to  allow 


30  THE  LONG  TRICK 

landing,  and  there's  quite  a  decent  little  9-hole  golf 
course.  Oh,  you  can  keep  fit  enough." 

"How  about  the  sailors — are  they  keeping 
cheery?" 

Thorogood  laughed.  "They're  amazing.  Of 
course,  we've  got  a  real  white  man  for  a  Skipper — 
and  the  Commander,  too:  that  goes  a  long  way. 
And  they're  away  from  drink  and — other  things 
that  ain't  good  for  'em.  Everybody  has  more  leisure 
to  devote  to  them  than  in  peace-time:  their  amuse- 
ments and  recreations  generally.  Cinema  shows  and 
regattas,  boxing  championships,  and  all  the  rest  of 
it.  There's  fifty  per  cent,  less  sickness  and  fewer 
punishments  than  we  ever  had  in  peace-time.  Of 
course,  it's  an  exile  for  the  married  men — it's  rough 
on  them,  but  on  the  whole  there's  jolly  little  grum- 
bling." 

"Yes,"  said  the  India-rubber  Man.  "It  must  be 
rough  on  the  married  men."  He  felt  suddenly  as  if 
an  immense  period  of  time  had  passed  since  he  said 
good-bye  to  Betty:  and  the  next  moment  he  felt 
that  he  had  had  enough  of  the  others.  He  wanted 
to  get  along  to  his  own  compartment  where  the  scent 
of  violets  had  lingered. 

He  rose,  stretching  himself,  and  slipped  his  pipe 
into  his  pocket.  "Well,"  he  said,  "  'Sufficient  unto 
the  day.'  I'm  turning  in  now." 

There  was  a  little  pause  after  his  departure,  and 
Thorogood  prodded  the  bowl  of  his  pipe  reflectively. 

"I  wonder  what's  happened  to  the  India-rubber 


BACK  FROM  THE  LAND  31 

Man?"  he  said.  "It's  some  time  since  I  saw  him 
last,  but  he's  altered  somehow.  Not  mouldy  exactly, 
either.  .  .  ." 

"He's  married,"  said  the  King's  Messenger,  star- 
ing at  the  shaded  electric  light  overhead,  as  he 
sprawled  with  one  elbow  on  the  pillow. 

Mouldy  Jakes  gave  a  little  grunt.  "Thought  as 
much.  They  get  like  that."  He  spoke  as  if  referring 
to  the  victims  of  an  incomprehensible  and  ravaging 
disease.  "An'  it's  always  the  good  ones  that  get 
nabbed."  He  eyed  the  King's  Messenger  with  an 
expression  of  melancholy  omniscience.  "Not  so  sus- 
picious, you  know." 

"Well,"  said  Thorogood,  "that  is  as  may  be: 
but  I'm  off  to  bed.  Come  along,  Mouldy." 

The  misogamist  suffered  himself  to  be  led  to  the 
double-berthed  compartment  he  shared  with  Thoro- 
good. 

The  King's  Messenger  locked  the  door  after  their 
departure  and  got  into  pyjamas.  For  a  long  time 
he  sat  cross-legged  on  his  bunk,  nursing  his  maimed 
limb  and  staring  into  vacancy  as  the  express  roared 
on  through  the  night.  Finally,  as  if  he  had  arrived 
at  some  conclusion,  he  shook  his  head  rather  sadly, 
turned  in,  and  switched  out  the  light. 

"Good  lad,  Podgie,"  observed  Thorogood  re- 
flectively to  his  companion,  as  he  proceeded  to  un- 
dress. 

Mouldy  Jakes,  energetically  brushing  his  teeth 
over  the  tiny  washing-basin,  grunted  assent. 


32  THE  LONG  TRICK 

"Ever  met  my  cousin  Cecily?"  pursued  Thoro- 
good.  uNo,  I  don't  think  you  did:  she  was  at  school 
when  we  stayed  with  Uncle  Bill  before  the  war." 

"Shouldn't  remember  her  if  I  had,"  mumbled 
the  gallant. 

"She's  Uncle  Bill's  ward,  and  by  way  of  being 
rather  fond  of  Podgie,  I  fancy — at  least,  she  used 
to  be,  I  know.  But  the  silly  old  ass  won't  go  near 
her  since  he  lost  his  foot." 

.  Mouldy  Jakes  dried  his  tooth-brush,  and,  fum- 
bling in  his  trouser  pocket,  produced  a  penny. 

"Heads  or  tails?"  he  queried. 

"Tails— why?" 

"It's  a  head.     Bags  I  the  lower  berth." 

The  India-rubber  Man,  in  his  compartment,  had 
got  into  pyjamas  and  was  sitting  up  in  his  bunk 
writing  with  a  pencil  and  pad  on  his  knees.  When 
he  had  finished  he  stamped  and  addressed  an  en- 
velope, rang  for  the  attendant,  and  gave  it  to  him  to 
be  posted  at  the  next  stopping-place.  It  bore  an 
address  in  Queen's  Gate,  London,  where  at  the  mo- 
ment the  addressee,  curled  up  in  the  centre  of  a 
very  large  bed,  was  doing  her  best  in  the  darkness 
to  keep  a  promise. 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  "NAVY  SPECIAL" 

RAILWAY  travel  appeals  to  the  sailor-man.     It 
provides  him  with  ample  leisure  for  conversa- 
tion, sleep,  or  convivial  song.    When  the  possibilities 
of  these  absorbing  pursuits  are  exhausted,  remains 
a  heightened  interest  in  the  next  meal. 

The  pale  February  sunlight  was  streaming  across 
snow-covered  moorland  that  stretched  away  on  either 
side  of  the  line,  when  the  Highland  Express  drew 
up  at  the  first  stopping  place  the  following  morning. 
From  every  carriage  poured  a  throng  of  hungry  blue- 
jackets in  search  of  breakfast.  Many  wore  long 
coats  of  duffle  or  sheepskin  provided  by  a  maternal 
Admiralty  in  view  of  the  severe  weather  conditions 
in  the  far  North.  The  British  bluejacket  is  accus- 
tomed to  wear  what  he  is  told  to  wear,  and  further,  to 
continue  wearing  it  until  he  is  told  to  put  on  some- 
thing else.  Hence  a  draft  of  men  sent  North  to 
the  Fleet  from  one  of  the  Naval  depots  in  the  South 
of  England  would  cheerfully  don  the  duffle  coats 
issued  to  them  on  departure  and  keep  them  on  until 
they  arrived  at  their  destination,  with  an  equal  dis- 
regard for  such  outward  circumstances  as  tempera- 
ture or  environment. 

33 


34  THE  LONG  TRICK 

A  night's  journey  in  a  crowded  and  overheated 
railway  carriage,  muffled  in  such  garb,  would  not 
commend  itself  to  the  average  individual  as  an  ideal 
prelude  to  a  hearty  breakfast.  Yet  the  cheerful, 
sleepy-eyed  crowd  of  apparently  par-boiled  Arctic 
explorers  that  invaded  the  restaurant  buffet  vocifer- 
ously demanding  breakfast,  appeared  on  the  best  of 
terms  with  themselves,  one  another  and  the  world 
at  large. 

A  score  or  more  of  officers  besieged  a  flustered 
girl  standing  beside  a  pile  of  breakfast  baskets,  and 
the  thin,  keen  morning  air  resounded  with  banter  and 
voices.  The  King's  Messenger,  freshly  shaven  and 
pink  of  countenance  (a  woman  once  likened  his  face 
to  that  of  a  cherub  looked  at  through  a  magnifying 
glass),  stood  at  the  door  of  his  carriage  and 
exchanged  morning  greetings  with  travellers  of  his 
acquaintance.  Then  the  guard's  whistle  sounded; 
the  noise  and  laughter  redoubled  along  the  platform 
and  a  general  scramble  ensued.  Doors  slammed 
down  the  length  of  the  train,  and  the  damsel  in 
charge  of  the  breakfast  baskets  raised  her  voice  in 
lamentation. 

uAne  o'  the  gentlemen  hasna  paid  for  his  bas- 
ket!" she  cried.  Heads  appeared  at  windows,  and 
the  owner  of  one  extended  a  half-crown.  "It's  my 
friend  in  here,"  he  explained.  "His  name  is  Mouldy 
Jakes,  and  he  can't  speak  for  himself  because  his 
mouth  is  too  full  of  bacon;  but  he  wishes  me  to  say 
that  he's  awfully  sorry  he  forgot.  He  was  struck 


THE  "NAVY  SPECIAL"  35 

all  of  a  heap  at  meeting  a  lady  so  early  in  the  morn- 
ing. .  .  . "  The  speaker  vanished  abruptly,  appar- 
ently jerked  backwards  by  some  mysterious  agency. 
The  train  started. 

The  maiden  turned  away  with  a  simper.  "It 
was  no  his  friend  at  all,"  she  observed  to  the  young 
lady  from  the  buffet,  who  had  emerged  to  wave 
farewell  to  a  bold,  bad  Engine  Room  Artificer  after 
a  desperate  flirtation  of  some  forty  seconds'  duration. 
"It  was  himself." 

"They're  a'  sae  sonsie !"  said  the  young  lady 
from  the  buffet  with  a  rapturous  sigh. 

At  the  junction  where  the  train  stopped  at  noon, 
Naval  occupation  of  the  North  proclaimed  itself. 
A  Master-at-Arms,  austere  of  visage  and  stentorian 
voiced,  fell  upon  the  weary  voyagers  like  a  collie 
rallying  a  flock  of  sheep.  A  Lieutenant-Commander 
of  the  Reserve,  in  a  tattered  monkey-jacket,  was 
superintending  the  unstowing  of  bags  and  hammocks 
by  a  party  of  ancient  mariners  in  white  working  rig 
and  brown  gaiters.  A  retired  Boatswain,  who  appar- 
ently bore  the  responsibilities  of  local  Traffic  Super- 
intendent upon  his  broad  shoulders,  held  sage  council 
with  the  engine  driver. 

The  travellers  were  still  many  weary  hours  from 
their  destination,  but  the  solicitude  of  the  great 
Mother  Fleet  for  her  sons'  welfare  was  plain  on 
every  side.  There  were  evidences  of  a  carefully 
planned,  wisely  executed  organisation  in  the  speed 
with  which  the  great  crowd  of  bluejackets  and 


36  THE  LONG  TRICK 

marines  of  all  ranks  and  ratings,  and  bound  for 
fifty  different  ships,  were  mustered,  given  their  din- 
ners and  marshalled  into  the  "Navy  Special"  that 
would  take  them  on  their  journey. 

Mouldy  Jakes  deposited  his  bags  and  rug  strap 
on  the  platform  and  surveyed  the  scene  with  mourn- 
ful pride.  "Good  old  Navy!"  he  observed  to  the 
India-rubber  Man,  while  Thorogood  went  in  search 
of  food.  "Good  old  firm !  Father  and  mother  and 
ticket  collector  and  supplier  of  ham-sandwiches  to 
us  all.  Who  wouldn't  sell  his  little  farm  and  go 
to  sea?" 

Standish  picked  up  his  suit-case  and  together 
they  made  for  the  adjoining  platform,  where  the 
train  that  was  to  take  them  on  their  journey  was 
waiting. 

They  selected  a  carriage  and  were  presently 
joined  by  Thorogood,  burdened  with  eatables  and 
soda-water.  The  bluejackets  were  already  in  their 
carriages,  and  the  remaining  officers,  to  the  number 
of  about  a  score,  were  settling  down  in  their  com- 
partments. They  represented  all  ranks  of  the  British 
Navy;  a  Captain  and  two  Commanders  were  joined 
by  the  Naval  Attache  of  a  great  neutral  Power  on 
his  way  to  visit  the  Fleet.  An  Engineer  Commander 
and  a  Naval  Instructor  shared  a  luncheon  basket 
with  a  Sub-Lieutenant  and  a  volunteer  Surgeon.  Two 
Clerks,  a  Midshipman  and  a  Torpedo  Gunner  found 
themselves  thrown  together,  and  at  the  last  moment 
a  Chaplain  added  himself  to  their  company. 


THE  "NAVY  SPECIAL"  37 

The  last  door  closed  and  the  King's  Messenger, 
carrying  his  despatch  case,  came  limping  along  the 
platform  in  company  with  the  grey-bearded  Com- 
mander in  charge  of  the  base.  The  King's  Messen- 
ger climbed  into  his  carriage  and  the  journey  was 
resumed.  Along  the  shores  of  jade-tinted  lochs, 
through  far-stretching  deer  forest  and  grouse  moor, 
past  brawling  rivers  of  "snow-brew,"  and  along 
the  flanks  of  shale-strewn  hills,  the  "Navy  Special" 
bore  its  freight  of  sailor-men. 

No  corridor  connected  the  carriages  to  afford 
opportunities  for  an  interchange  of  visits  for  gossip 
and  change  of  companionship.  The  occupants  of 
each  compartment  settled  down  grimly  to  endure  the 
monotony  of  the  last  stage  of  their  journey  accord- 
ing to  the  dictates  of  their  several  temperaments. 

The  King's  Messenger,  in  the  seclusion  of  his 
reserved  compartment,  read  a  novel  at  intervals  and 
looked  out  of  the  window  for  familiar  landmarks  that 
recalled  spells  of  leave  in  pre-war  days,  when  he 
tramped  on  two  feet  through  the  heather  behind  the 
dogs,  or,  thigh  deep  in  some  river,  sent  a  silken 
line  out  across  the  peat-brown  water. 

In  an  adjoining  compartment  a  Lieutenant  of  the 
Naval  Reserve  sat  at  one  end  facing  a  Lieutenant 
of  the  Volunteer  Reserve,  while  a  small  Midshipman, 
effaced  behind  a  magazine,  occupied  the  other  corner. 
Conversation,  stifled  by  ham  sandwiches,  restarted 
fitfully,  and  flagged  from  train  weariness.  Darkness 
pursued  the  whirling  landscape  and  blotted  it  out. 


3  8  THE  LONG  TRICK 

Sleep  overtook  the  majority  of  the  travellers  until  the 
advent  of  tea  baskets  at  the  next  stopping  place  re- 
vived them  to  a  more  lively  interest  in  life  and  one 
another. 

The  Reserve  Lieutenant  fussed  over  his  like  a 
woman.  "I  wouldn't  trouble  if  I  never  smelt  whisky 
again,"  he  confided  to  his  vis-a-vis,  ubut  I  couldn't 
get  on  without  tea."  He  helped  himself  to  three 
lumps  of  sugar. 

The  ice  thinned  rapidly. 

'With  fresh  milk,"  said  the  Volunteer  Reserve 
man  appreciatively,  pouring  himself  out  a  cup.  "Eh, 
Jennings?" 

The  Midshipman,  thus  addressed,  grinned  and 
applied  himself  in  silence  to  a  scone  and  jam. 

"Ah,"  said  the  Reserve  man  with  a  kind  of  toler- 
ance in  his  tone,  such  as  a  professional  might  extend 
to  the  enthusiasm  of  an  amateur  in  his  own  trade. 
"•Cows  scarce  in  your  job?" 

"A  bit,"  was  the  unruffled  reply.  "We've  just 
brought  a  Norwegian  wind-jammer  in  from  the  South 
of  Iceland.  ..."  He  indicated  with  a  nod  the 
young  gentleman  in  the  corner,  who  was  removing 
traces  of  jam  from  his  left  cheek.  "I'm  bringing 
the  armed  guard,  back  to  our  base." 

The  Reserve  man  cjrank  his  tea  after  the  manner 
of  deep-sea  sailor-men.  That  is  to  say,  you  could  shut 
your  eyes  and  still  know  he  was  drinking  hot  tea. 

"Armed  Merchant-cruiser  squadron?"  he  queried. 
Imperceptibly  his  tone  had  changed.  The  Armed 


THE  "NAVY  SPECIAL"  39 

Merchant-cruisers  maintain  the  Allied  blockade 
across  the  trade  routes  of  the  Far  North:  "fancy" 
sailor-men  do  not  apply  for  jobs  in  one  of  these 
amazons  of  the  North  Sea,  and  it  takes  more  than 
a  Naval  uniform  to  bring  a  suspect  sailing  ship  many 
miles  into  port  for  examination  under  an  armed 
guard  of  four  men. 

The  Volunteer  nodded.  "We  had  a  picnic,  I  can 
tell  you.  It  blew  like  hell  from  the  N.E.,  and  the 
foretopmast — she  was  a  barque — went  like  a  carrot 
the  second  day.  We  hove  to,  trying  to  rig  a  jury 
mast,  when  up  popped  a  Fritz."*  The  speaker 
laughed,  a  pleasant,  deep  laugh  of  complete  enjoy- 
ment. "I  thought  we  were  in  for  a  swim  that  would 
knock  the  cross-Channel  record  silly!  However,  I 
borrowed  a  suit  from  the  skipper — and  he  wasn't 
what  you'd  call  fastidious  in  his  dress  either " 

The  Volunteer  made  a  little  grimace  at  the  recol- 
lection, because  he  was  a  man  of  refined  tastes  and 
raced  his  own  yacht  across  the  Atlantic  in  peace 
time. 

"It  was  too  rough  to  board,  but  the  submarine 
closed  to  within  hailing  distance,  and  a  little  pip- 
squeak of  a  Lieutenant,  nervous  as  a  cat,  talked  to 
us  through  a  megaphone.  Fortunately  I  can  speak 
Norwegian.  ..." 

"What  about  the  skipper  of  the  windjammer?" 
interrupted  the  other. 

"He  kept  his  mouth  shut.    Wasn't  much  in  sym- 

*  Submarine, 


40  THE  LONG  TRICK 

pathy  with  the  company  that  owned  the  submarine, 
having  lost  a  brother  the  month  before  in  a  steamship 
shelled  and  sunk  without  warning.  You  can't  please 
everybody,  it  seems,  when  you  start  out  to  act  mad 
in  a  submarine.  Well,  this  lad  examined  our  papers 
through  a  glass  and  I  chucked  him  a  cigar.  .  .  .  He 
hadn't  had  a  smoke  for  a  week.  Then  he  sheered 
off,  because  he  saw  something  on  the  horizon  that 
scared  him.  He  was  very  young,  and,  as  I've  said, 
nerves  like  fiddle  strings." 

The  Reserve  man  lit  a  cigarette  and  inhaled  a 
great  draught  of  smoke'.  There  was  something  in 
his  alert,  intent  expression  reminiscent  of  a  bull  terrier 
when  he  hears  rats  scuffling  behind  a  wainscot. 

The  war  has  evolved  specialists  without  number 
in  branches  of  Naval  warfare  hitherto  unknown  and 
unsuspected.  Among  these  is  the  Submarine  Hunter. 
The  Reserve  man  belonged  to  this  type,  which  is 
simply  a  reversion  to  the  most  primitive  and  savage 
of  the  fighting  instincts.  At  the  first  mention  of 
the  German  submarine  he  leaned  forward  eagerly. 

"Threw  him  a  cigar,  did  you?"  he  said  grimly. 
"Sorry  I  wasn't  there.  I'd  have  thrown  him  some- 
thing. That's  my  line  of  business — Fritz-hunting." 

The  ribbon  of  the  Distinguished  Service  Cross 
on  the  lapel  of  his  monkey-jacket  showed  that  he 
apparently  pursued  this  branch  of  sport  with  some 
effect.  "Been  at  it  from  the  kick-off,"  he  continued. 
"Started  with  herring  nets,  you  know !"  He  laughed 
a  deep  bark  of  amusement.  "Lord!  We  had  a  lot 


THE  "NAVY  SPECIAL"  41 

to  learn.  We  began  from  an  East  Coast  fishing  port, 
working  with  crazy  drifters  manned  by  East  Coast 
fishermen.  There  was  a  retired  Admiral  in  charge, 
as  tough  an  old  terror  as  ever  pulled  on  a  sea  boot — 
and  half  a  dozen  of  us  all  together,  some  Active 
Service  and  some  Reserve  like  me.  Navy?  Bless 
you,  we  were  the  Navy,  that  old  Admiral  and  us 
six."  The  speaker  raised  his  voice  to  make  plain 
his  words  above  the  rattle  of  the  train.  "There  was 
a  lot  of  talk  in  the  papers  about  Jellicoe  and  Beatty 
and  the  Grand  Fleet  and  the  Battle  Cruisers,  but 
they  didn't  come  our  way  and  we  didn't  trouble 
them.  We  had  a  couple  of  score  of  trawlers  and 
drifters  and  four  hundred  simple  fishermen  to  cram 
the  fear  of  the  Lord  into.  That  was  our  job !" 

He  spoke  with  the  peculiar  word-sparing  vivid- 
ness of  the  man  to  whom  the  Almighty  had  vouch- 
safed the  mysterious  gift  of  handling  other  men. 
"Long-shore  and  deep-sea  fishermen,  good  material, 
damned  good,  but  they  took  a  lot  of  coaxing."  He 
paused  and  contemplated  his  hands  resting  on  his 
knees.  Scarred  by  frost-bite  they  were,  with  huge 
bones  protruding  like  knuckle-dusters.  "Coaxing, 
mind  you,"  he  repeated.  "I've  been  chief  of  an 
Argentine  cattle-boat  for  four  years  and  Second  on 
a  windjammer  round  the  Horn  for  three  years  be- 
fore that.  I  know  when  to  drive  and  when  to  coax. 
Never  touched  a  man,  sir."  He  paused,  rubbing  off 
the  moisture  condensed  on  the  window,  to  peer  into 
the  night. 


42  THE  LONG  TRICK 

Here,  then,  was  an  Apostle  of  Naval  Discipline 
among  a  community  of  fishermen  whose  acknowl- 
edged tradition  it  was  to  get  drunk  when  and  where 
it  suited  their  inclinations,  to  put  to  sea  in  the  top- 
hats  of  their  ancestors  and  return  to  harbour  as 
weather  or  the  fish  dictated,  whose  instinctive  atti- 
tude towards  strangers  was  about  as  encouraging  as 
that  of  the  Solomon  Islanders. 

"We  took  'em  and  trained  'em — gradually,  you 
understand.  Taught  'em  to  salute  the  King's  uni- 
form, an'  just  why  orders  had  to  be  obeyed:  ex- 
plained it  all  gently" — the  stupendous  hand  made 
a  gesture  in  the  air  as  if  stroking  something.  "Then 
after  a  while  we  moved  'em  on  to  something  else — 
the  Game  itself,  in  fact — and  my  merry  men  tumbled 
to  it  in  no  time.  It  was  in  their  blood,  I  guess. 
They'd  hunted  something  all  their  lives,  and  they 
weren't  scared  because  they  had  to  take  on  some- 
thing a  bit  bigger.  I  tell  you,  after  a  few  weeks  I 
just  prayed  for  a  submarine  to  come  along  and  show 
what  we  could  do." 

The  Volunteer  grinned  understandingly.  "Well?" 
he  said. 

"We  got  one  a  week  later.  Just  for  all  the  world 
like  a  bloomin'  salmon.  First  we  knew  that  there 
was  one  about  was  the  Merrie  Maggie,  one  of  our 
trawlers,  blowing  up.  Well,  I'd  been  over  the  same 
spot  in  the  morning,  and  there  were  no  mines  there 
then,  so  I  knew  our  friend  wasn't  far  off.  .  :.,  ."  The 
Submarine  Hunter  mused  for  a  moment,  staring  at 


THE  "NAVY  SPECIAL"  43 

his  clasped  hands,  with  the  faint  blue  tattoo-marks 
showing  under  the  tan.     "We  got  him  at  dawn — off 
a  headland.  ...  .    .  Oh,  best  bit  of  sport  that  ever  I 

had!"  The  speaker's  hard  grey  eye  softened  at  the 
recollection.  "We've  got  lots  since,  but  never  one 
as  neat  as  that.  He  just  came  to  the  surface  and 

showed  his  tail-fin  and "  the  huge  hands  made 

a  significant  downward  gesture. 

If  you  have  ever  heard  a  Regimental  Bombing 
Officer  describe  the  clearing  of  an  enemy  traverse, 
you  will  understand  the  complete  expressiveness  of 
that  gesture. 

"I'm  going  North  now  to  join  a  new  base  up 
there.  There  are  one  or  two  dodges  that  I  can 
put  them  up  to,  I  reckon." 

The  Volunteer  filled  and  lit  a  pipe. 

"Pretty  work  it  sounds.  Ours  is  duller,  on  the 
whole,  but  we  get  our  share  of  excitement.  You 
never  sight  a  steamer  flying  neutral  colours  without 
the  possibility  of  her  hoisting  the  German  ensign 
and  slipping  a  torpedo  into  you.  That's  why  we 
introduced  the  Red  Pendant  business.  It  meant  in- 
convenience for  all  parties,  but  neutrals  have  only 
got  the  Hun  to  thank  for  it." 

"Never  heard  of  it,"  said  the  other.  "Fritz- 
hunting  is  my  game." 

"Well,  you  see,  ever  since  they've  tried  to  slip 
raiders  through  the  blockade  we  can't  afford  to  close 
a  stranger  flying  neutral  colours  within  gun  or  tor- 
pedo range.  So  we  had  to  explain  to  neutrals  that 


44  THE  LONG  TRICK 

a  red  flag  hoisted  by  one  of  our  merchant  cruisers 
is  the  signal  to  heave  to  instantly,  and  that  brings 
her  up  well  out  of  range.  Then  we  drop  a  boat 
and  steam  off  and  signal  her  to  close  the  boat,  and 
the  boarding  officer  goes  on  board  and  examines  her 
papers.  If  she's  got  a  cargo  without  guarantees 
she's  sent  into  one  of  the  examination  ports  under 
an  armed  guard  to  have  it  overhauled  properly." 

"For  contraband?" 

"Yes,  and  to  see  that  the  commodity  she  carries 
isn't  in  excess  of  the  ration  allowed  to  the  country 
of  destination — if  she's  eastward  bound,  that  is. 
Also  the  passengers  are  scrutinised  for  suspects,  and 
so  on;  it's  a  big  job,  one  way  and  another.  That's 
all  done  by  the  Examination  Service  at  the  port, 
though,  and  I  don't  envy  them  the  job.  We  only 
catch  'em  and  bring  'em  in." 

For  a  while  longer  he  talked  between  puffs  at 
his  pipe  of  the  "twilight  service"  rendered  by  the 
Armed  Merchant-cruisers.  He  spoke  of  grim  stern- 
chases  under  the  Northern  Lights,  of  perils  from  ice 
and  submarines  and  winter  gales,  while  the  Allied 
strangle-hold  tightened  month  by  month,  remorse- 
lessly, relentlessly. 

"It's  a  peaceful  sort  of  job,  though,  on  the 
whole,"  he  concluded.  "Nobody  worries  us.  The 
public,  most  of  'em,  don't  know  we  exist.  Journalists 
don't  want  to  come  and  visit  us  much,"  he  chuckled. 
"We  don't  find  our  way  into  the  illustrated  pa- 
pers. .  .  ..." 


THE  "NAVY  SPECIAL"  45 

"That's  right,"  said  the  Submarine  Hunter. 
"That's  the  way  to  work  in  war-time.  If  I  had 
my  way " 

A  jarring  shudder  ran  through  the  train  as  the 
brakes  were  applied  and  the  speed  slackened.  The 
Reserve  Man  lowered  the  window  and  peered  out 
into  the  darkness.  A  flurry  of  snow  drifted  into 
the  dimly  lighted  carriage. 

"Hallo!"  he  ejaculated.  "We're  here.  Bless 
me,  how  the  time  goes  when  one  gets  yarning." 

The  Volunteer  rose  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"My  name  is  Armitage,"  he  said,  and  named 
two  exclusive  clubs,  one  in  London  and  the  other 
in  New  York.  "Look  me  up  after  the  war  if 
you  pass  that  way." 

The  Submarine  Hunter  took  the  proffered  hand 
in  his  formidable  grip. 

"Pleased  to  have  met  you.  Mine's  Gedge.  I 
don't  own  a  club,  but  the  Liverpool  Shipping  Fed- 
eration generally  knows  my  address.  And  the  girls 
from  Simonstown  to  Vladivostock  will  tell  you  if 
I've  passed  that  way!" 

He  threw  back  his  head,  displaying  the  mus- 
cular great  throat  above  his  collar,  and  laughed  like 
a  mischievous  boy. 

"Good  luck!"  he  said. 

"Good  hunting!"  replied  the  Volunteer. 

He  turned  to  the  Midshipman.  "Come  along, 
sonny,  shake  the  sleep  out  of  your  eyes  and  go  and 
collect  our  little  party." 


46  THE  LONG  TRICK 

Outside  in  the  snowy  darkness  the  great  con- 
course of  men  was  being  mustered:  lanterns  gleamed 
on  wet  oilskins  and  men's  faces.  Hoarse  voices  and 
the  tramp  of  heavy  boots  through  the  slush  heralded 
the  passage  along  the  platform  of  each  draft  as  they 
marched  to  the  barrier.  A  cold  wind  cut  through 
the  cheerless  night  like  a  knife. 

Armitage  paused  for  a  moment  to  accustom 
his  eyes  to  the  darkness. 

"Here  we  are,  Mouldy,"  said  a  clear-cut,  well- 
bred  voice  out  of  the  darkness  surrounding  a  pile  of 
luggage.  "Here's  our  stuff.  Get  a  truck,  old  thing !" 

Armitage  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  voice :  as 
he  did  so  a  passing  lantern  flashed  on  the  face  of  a 
Lieutenant  stooping  over  some  portmanteaux. 

"I  thought  as  much,"  he  said.  "Thought  I  rec- 
ognised the  voice."  He  stepped  towards  the  speaker 
and  rested  his  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "James  Thoro- 
good,  isn't  it?"  he  said. 

The  other  straightened  up  and  peered  through 
the  darkness  at  the  face  of  the  Volunteer  Lieutenant. 
"Yes,"  he  replied,  "but  it's  devilish  dark— I 
can't " 

"I'm  Armitage,"  said  the  other. 

Thorogood  laughed.  "Great  Scott!"  he  ex- 
claimed. "Were  you  in  the  train?  I  didn't  see  you 
before " 

"Neither  did  I,"  was  the  reply,  "but  I  heard 
your  voice  and  recognised  it.  How  is  Sir 
William?" 


THE  UNAVY  SPECIAL"  47 

"Uncle  Bill?  Oh,  he's  all  right.  Hard  at  work 
on  some  comic  invention  of  his,  as  usual." 

The  other  nodded.  "Well,  give  him  my  love 
when  you  write,  and  tell  him  I've  struck  the  type 
of  man  he  wants  for  that  experiment  of  his.  I'll 
write  to  him,  though.  Now  I  must  go  and  find  my 
little  party  of  braves — bringing  an  armed  guard 
back  to  our  base.  Good-bye  and  good  luck  to  you." 

They  shook  hands,  and  the  Volunteer  half  turned 
away.  An  afterthought  appeared  to  strike  him, 
however,  and  he  stopped. 

"By  the  way,"  he  added,  "how's  Miss  Cecily? 
Well,  I  hope?" 

"She's  all  right,  thanks,"  was  the  reply.  "I'll 
tell  her  I've  seen  you." 

"Will  you?  Yes,  thank  you.  And  will  you  say 
I — I  am  looking  forward  to  seeing  her  again  next 
time  I  come  South?" 

The  speaker  moved  away  into  the  darkness.  At 
that  moment  appeared  Mouldy  Jakes,  panting  be- 
hind a  barrow.  "Who's  that  old  bird?"  he  queried. 

"Another  of  'em,"  replied  Thorogood. 

"'Notherof  what?" 

"Cecily's  hopeless  attachments.  He's  a  pal  of 
Uncle  Bill's,  and  as  rich  as  Croesus.  Amateur  deep 
sea  yachtsman  before  the  war.  He's  awfully  gone 
on  Cecily." 

1  'Counts  for  him  hanging  round  your  neck,  I 
s'pose,"  commented  the  student  of  human  nature. 
"Sort  of  'dweller-near-the-rose'  business.  Heave  that 


48  THE  LONG  TRICK 

suit-case  over — unless  you  can  find  any  more  of  your 
cousin's  admirers  sculling  about  the  country.  P'raps 
they'll  load  this  truck  for  us  and  shove  it  to  the  boat. 
Ah,  here's  Podgie !" 

A  moment  later  the  King's  Messenger  joined  the 
group. 

"Will  you  all  come  and  have  supper  with  me 
at  the  hotel?"  he  said.  "It's  the  last  meal  you'll 
get  on  terra  firma  for  some  time  to  come.  I've  got  a 
car  waiting  outside." 

Mouldy  Jakes  heaved  the  last  of  the  bags  on  to 
the  hand-cart  and  enlisted  the  services  of  a  super- 
annuated porter  drifting  past  in  the  darkness.  The 
King's  Messenger  had  slipped  his  arm  inside  Thoro- 
good's,  and  the  two  moved  on  towards  the 
barrier. 

"Has  your  wife  got  a  young  brother?"  asked 
Mouldy  Jakes  abruptly  as  he  and  the  India-rubber 
Man  followed  in  the  wake  of  the  porter  and  the 
barrow. 

"Yes,"  replied  Standish.  "A  lad  called  Joe- 
cadet  at  Dartmouth." 

"Did  you  ever  ask  him  to  dinner — before  you 
were  engaged,  I  mean?"  pursued  the  inquisitor. 

The  India-rubber  Man  laughed. 

"Well,  not  dinner  exactly.  But  I  went  down 
to  Osborne  College  once  and  stood  him  a  blow-out 
at  the  tuck-shop." 

His  companion  nodded  darkly  in  the  direction 
of  the  King's  Messenger. 


THE  "NAVY  SPECIAL"  49 

"Shouldn't  wonder  if  Thorogood  was  feeling 
like  that  lad  Joe.  Useful  fellow  to  travel  with, 
Thorogood." 


CHAPTER  III 

ULTIMA  THULE 

ACROSS  the  stormy  North  Sea  came  the  first 
faint  streak  of  dawn.  It  overtook  a  long  line 
of  Destroyers  rolling  landward  with  battered  bridge- 
screens  and  salt-crusted  funnels;  it  met  a  flotilla  of 
mine-sweeping  Sloops,  labouring  patiently  out  to 
their  unending  task.  It  lit  the  frowning  cliffs,  round 
which  wind-tossed  gulls  wailed  and  breakers  had 
thundered  the  beat  of  an  ocean's  pulse  throughout 
the  ages. 

The  Destroyers  were  not  sorry  to  see  the  da .  n. 
The  night  was  their  task-master:  in  darkness  they 
worked  and  in  the  Shadow  of  Death.  They  passed 
within  hailing  distance  of  the  Sloops,  and  on  board 
the  reeling  Destroyers  here  and  there  a  figure  in 
streaming  oilskins  raised  his  arm  and  waved  a  salu- 
tation to  the  squat  grey  craft  setting  forth  in  the  com- 
fortless dawn  to  holystone  Death's  doorstep. 

The  Mine-sweepers  refrained  from  any  such 
amenity.  Anon  the  darkness  would  come  again, 
when  no  man  may  sweep  for  mines.  Then  would 
be  their  turn  for  grins  and  the  waving  of  arms.  In 
the  meanwhile,  they  preferred  to  remain  grim  and 
jestless  as  their  work. 

51 


ULTIMA  THULE  51 

Presently  the  Destroyers,  obedient  to  a  knotted 
tangle  of  flags  at  the  yardarm  of  their  leader,  altered 
course  a  little;  they  were  making  for  an  opening  in 
the  wall  of  rock,  on  either  side  of  which  gaunt  prom- 
ontories thrust  their  naked  shoulders  into  the  surf. 
The  long  black,  viperish  hulls  passed  through  under 
the  ever-watchful  eyes  of  the  shore  batteries,  and 
the  hooded  figures  on  the  Destroyer  bridges  threw 
back  their  duffle  cowls  and  wiped  the  night's  accu- 
mulation of  dried  spray  and  cinders  out  of  the 
puckers  round  their  tired  eyes. 

The  Commanding  Officer  of  the  leading  De- 
stroyer leaned  across  the  bridge-rajls  and  stared 
round  at  the  ring  of  barren  islands  encircling  the 
great  expanse  of  water  into  which  they  had  passed, 
the  naked,  snow-powdered  hills  in  the  background: 
at  the  greyness  and  desolation  of  earth  and  sky 
and  sea. 

"Home  again!"  he  said  in  an  undertone  to  the 
Lieutenant  beside  him.  "It  ain't  much  of  a  place 
to  look  at,  but  I'm  never  sorry  to  see  it  again  after 
a  dusting  like  we  got  last  night." 

The  Lieutenant  raised  the  glasses  slung  round 
his  neck  by  a  strap  and  levelled  them  at  a  semi- 
globular  object  that  had  appeared  on  the  surface 
some  distance  away.  "There's  old  Tirpitz  waiting 
to  say  good  morning  as  usual." 

The  Commander  laughed.  "Rum  old  devil  he 
is.  That's  where  the  Hun  has  the  pull  over  us. 
He's  got  something  better  than  a  seal  to  welcome 


52  THE  LONG  TRICK 

him  back  to   harbour — when   he   does   get  back!" 

"When  he  does,  yes."  The  other  chuckled. 
"Gretchens  an'  iron  crosses  an'  joy  bells.  Lord,  I'd 
love  to  see  'em,  wouldn't  you?  Just  for  five  min- 
utes!" 

The  Commander  moved  across  to  the  tiny  bin- 
nacle. "I'd  rather  see  my  own  wife  for  five  minutes," 
he  replied.  Then,  raising  his  voice,  "Starboard  ten !" 

"Starboard  ten,  sir,"  repeated  the  voice  of  the 
helmsman. 

The  Commander  stood  with  watchful  eye  on  the 
swinging  compass  card.  "Midships  .  .  .  steady!" 

"Steady,  sir!"  sang  the  echo  at  the  wheel.  The 
Commander  glanced  aft  through  the  trail  of  smoke 
at  the  next  astern  swinging  round  in  the  smother 
of  his  wake.  "Well,  we  shan't  be  long  now  before 
we  tie  up  to  the  buoy — curse  these  fellows!  Here 
come  all  the  drifters  with  mails  and  ratings  for  the 
Fleet.  .  .  .  Port  five !" 

"Port  five,  sir!"  The  flotilla  altered  course  dis- 
dainfully to  avoid  a  steamdrifter  which  wallowed 
through  the  wake  of  the  Destroyers  in  the  direction 
of  the  distant  fleet,  still  shrouded  by  the  morning 
mist.  "That's  the  King's  Messenger  going  off  to 
the  Fleet  Flagship.  There  come  the  others,  strung 
out  in  a  procession,  making  for  the  different  squad- 
rons. Wake  up,  you  son  of  Ham!"  The  speaker 
stepped  to  the  lanyard  of  the  syren  and  jerked  it 
savagely.  Obedient  to  the  warning  wail  another 
drifter  altered  course  in  reluctant  compliance  with 


ULTIMA  THULE  53 

the  Rule  of  the  Road.  "I'd  rather  take  the  flotilla 
through  Piccadilly  Circus  than  manoeuvre  among 
these  Fleet  Messengers !  They're  bad  enough  on 
the  high  seas  in  peace-time  with  their  nets  out,  but 
booming  about  inside  a  harbour  they're  enough  to 
turn  one's  hair  grey." 

If  the  truth  be  told,  the  past  had  known  no 
great  love  lost  between  the  Destroyers  and  the  fish- 
ing fleet.  Herring-nets  round  a  propeller  are  not 
calculated  to  bind  hearts  together  in  brotherly  affec- 
tion. Perhaps  dim  recollections  of  bygone  mishaps 
of  this  nature  had  soured  the  Destroyer  Commander's 
heart  towards  the  steam-drifter. 

On  the  outbreak  of  war,  however,  the  steam 
fishing  fleets  became  an  arm  of  the  great  Navy  itself, 
far-reaching  as  its  own  squadrons.  They  exchanged 
their  nets  for  guns  and  mine-sweeping  paraphernalia : 
they  became  submarine  hunters,  mine-sweepers,  fleet- 
messengers  and  patrollers  of  the  great  commerce 
sea-ways  in  the  South.  They  became  a  little  Navy 
within  the  Navy,  in  fact,  already  boasting  their  own 
peculiar  traditions,  and  probably  as  large  a  propor- 
tion of  D.S.C.'s  as  any  other  branch  of  the  mother 
Service. 

They  are  a  slow,  crab-gaited  community  that 
clings  to  gold  earrings  and  fights  in  jerseys  and 
thigh  boots  from  which  the  fish-scales  have  not  alto- 
gether departed.  Ashore,  on  the  other  hand  (where 
their  women  rule),  they  consent  to  the  peaked  cap 
and  brass  buttons  of  His  Majesty's  uniform,  and 


54  THE  LONG  TRICK 

wear  it,  moreover,  with  the  coy  self-consciousness  of 
a  bulldog  in  a  monogrammed  coat. 

Link  by  link  they  have  built  up  a  chain  of  asso- 
ciations with  the  parent  Navy  that  will  not  be  easily 
broken  when  the  time  comes  for  these  little  auxilia- 
ries to  return  to  their  peaceful  calling.  They  have 
worked  side  by  side  with  the  dripping  Submarine: 
they  have  sheltered  through  storms  in  the  lee  of  an- 
chored Battleships;  they  have  piloted  proud  Cruisers 
through  the  newly-swept  channels  of  a  mine-field, 
and  brought  a  Battle-cruiser  Squadron  its  Christmas 
mail  in'  the  teeth  of  a  Northern  blizzard.  In  token 
of  these  things,  babies  born  in  fishing  villages  from 
the  Orkneys  to  the  Nore  have  been  christened  after 
famous  Admirals  and  men-of-war,  that  the  new  gen- 
eration shall  remember. 

The  drifter  that  had  altered  course  slowly  came 
round  again  when  the  last  of  the  Destroyers  swept 
past,  and  the  three  figures  in  the  bows  ducked  as 
she  shipped  a  bucket  of  spray  and  flung  it  aft  over 
the  tiny  wheel-house.  One  of  the  figures  turned 
and  stared  after  the  retreating  hulls. 

"Confound  'em,"  he  said.  "Just  like  the  bloom- 
ing Destroyers,  chucking  their  weight  about  as  if 
they  owned  creation,  and  making  us  take  their 
beastly  wash."  He  took  off  his  cap  and  shook  the 
salt  water  from  it.  One  of  the  other  two  chuckled. 
"Never  mind,  Mouldy,  it  will  be  your  turn  to  laugh 
next  time  we  go  to  sea,  when  you're  perched  on  the 
foreb ridge  sixty  feet  above  the  waterline,  and  watch- 


ULTIMA  THULE  55 

ing  our  Destroyer-screen  shipping  it  green  over  their 
funnels." 

Mouldy  Jakes  shook  his  head  gloomily. 
"Laugh!"  he  echoed.  "Then  I'd  get  shoved  under 
arrest  by  the  skipper  under  suspicion  of  being  drunk." 

The  drifter  rounded  an  outlying  promontory  of 
one  of  the  islands,  and  Thorogood  raised  his  hand. 
"There  you  are,"  he  said,  "there's  our  little  lot!" 
He  indicated  with  a  nod  the  Battle-fleet  of  Britain. 

"And  very  nice  too,"  said  the  India-rubber  Man, 
staring  in  the  direction  of  the  other's  gaze.  "Puts 
me  in  mind,  as  they  say,  of  a  picture  I  saw  once. 
'National  Insurance,'  I  think  it  was  called." 

A  shaft  of  sunlight  had  struggled  through  a 
rift  in  the  clouds  and  fell  athwart  the  dark  wajters 
of  the  harbour.  In  the  far  distance,  outlined  against 
the  sombre  hills  and  lit  by  the  pale  sunshine,  a  thicket 
of  tripod  masts  rose  towering  above  the  grey  hulls 
of  the  anchored  Battle-fleet. 

As  the  drifter  drew  near  the  different  classes  of 
ships  became  distinguishable.  A  squadron  of  Light 
Cruisers  were  anchored  between  them  and  the  main 
Fleet,  with  a  thin  haze  of  smoke  hovering  above 
their  raking  funnels.  Beyond  them,  line  upon  line, 
in  a  kind  of  sullen  majesty,  lay  the  Battleships. 
Seen  thus  in  peace-time,  a  thousand  glistening  points 
of  burnished  metal,  the  white  of  the  awnings,  smooth 
surfaces  of  enamel,  varnish  and  gold-leaf  would 
have  caught  the  liquid  sunlight  and  concealed  the 
menace  of  that  stern  array. 


56  THE  LONG  TRICK 

Now,  however,  stripped  of  awnings,  with  bare 
decks,  stark  as  gladiators,  sombre  and  terrible,  they 
conveyed  a  relentless  significance  heightened  by  the 
desolation  of  their  surroundings. 

From  the  offing  came  the  rumble  of  heavy  gun- 
fire. 

"Don't  be  alarmed,"  said  Thorogood  to  the 
India-rubber  Man,  who  had  turned  in  the  direction 
of  the  sound;  "we  haven't  missed  the  bus!"  He 
looked  along  the  lines  with  a  swift,  practised  eye. 
"It's  only  some  of  the  Battle-cruisers  out  doing  target 
practice.  That's  our  squadron,  there."  He  pointed 
ahead.  "We're  the  second  ship  in  that  line." 

The  drifter  passed  up  a  broad  lane,  on  either 
side  of  which  towered  grey  steel  walls,  unbroken 
by  scuttles  or  embrasures;  above  them  the  muzzles 
of  guns  hooded  by  casemates  and  turrets,  the  mighty 
funnels,  piled  up  bridges  and  superstructures, 
frowned  down  like  the  battlements  of  fortresses. 
Men,  dwarfed  by  the  magnitude  of  their  environ- 
ment to  the  size  of  ants,  and  clad  in  jerseys  and 
white  working-rig,  swarmed  about  the  decks  and  bat- 
teries. 

"There's  the  Fleet  Flagship,"  continued  Thoro- 
good, pointing.  "That  ship  with  the  drifters  round 
her,  flying  the  Commander-in-Chief's  flag.  That's 
where  Podgie  was  bound  for.  Rummy  to  think  he'll 
be  back  in  London  again  in  a  couple  of  day's  time!" 

A  seaplane  that  had  been  riding  on  the  surface 
near  the  Fleet  Flagship's  quarter,  rose  like  a  flying 


ULTIMA  THULE  57 

gull,  circled  in  wide  spirals  over  the  Fleet  and  sped 
seawards.  Across  the  lanes  of  water,  armed  picket- 
boats,  with  preternaturally  grave-faced  Midshipmen 
at  their  wheels,  picked  their  way  amongst  the  traffic 
of  drifters,  cutters  under  sail,  hooting  store  carriers 
and  puffers  from  the  distant  base. 

Mouldy  Jakes  contemplated  the  busy  scene  with- 
out undue  enthusiasm. 

"Everything  seems  to  be  much  the  same  as 
usual,"  was  his  dry  comment.  "They  seem  to  have 
got  on  all  right  without  me  for  the  last  seven  days. 
We've  had  a  coat  of  paint,  too.  Wonder  what's  up. 
P'raps  the  King's  coming  to  pay  us  a  visit.  Or  else 
the  Commander  reckons  it's  about  time  to  beat  up  for 
his  promotion." 

The  skipper  of  the  drifter  jerked  the  miniature 
telegraph  to  "Slow,"  and  a  hoary-headed  deck-hand 
stumped  into  the  bows  with  a  heaving  line  coiled 
over  his  arm.  The  drifter  crept  up  under  the  quarter 
of  a  Battleship  that  towered  above  them  into  the  grey 
sky. 

A  tall,  thin  Lieutenant  with  a  telescope  under 
his  arm  looked  down  from  the  quarter-deck  and 
made  a  gesture  of  greeting. 

"Hullo,  Tweedledum,"  said  Thorogood;  and 
added,  "Bless  me,  Tweedledum's  shaved  his  beard 
off!" 

"Must  be  the  King,  then,"  said  Mouldy  gloomily. 
"Means  I  shall  have  to  order  another  monkey- 
jacket."  A  bull  terrier  thrust  a  python-like  head 


58  THE  LONG  TRICK 

between  the  rails  and  wagged  his  tail.  The  drifter 
grated  her  fenders  alongside  and  made  fast. 

The  three  officers  climbed  the  swaying  ladder  to 
the  upper  deck,  and  were  greeted  in  turn  by  the  tall 
Lieutenant  with  the  telescope.  "You're  Standish, 
aren't  you?"  he  asked,  turning  to  the  India-rubber 
Man.  "The  Commander  wants  to  see  you — you're 
an  old  shipmate  of  his,  it  seems?"  He  led  the  way 
as  he  spoke  towards  a  door  in  the  after  super- 
structure. 

"Yes,"  was  the  reply.  "He  was  the  First  Lieu- 
tenant in  my  last  ship — with  this  Skipper." 

"Ah,"  said  the  other,  "she  must  have  been  a  good 
ship  then." 

They  skirted  a  hatchway  in  the  interior  of  the 
superstructure  that  yawned  into  the  electric-lit  inte- 
rior of  the  ship,  past  cabins  opening  on  to  the  fore- 
most side  of  them,  and  stopped  at  a  curtained 
doorway.  A  square  of  polished  mahogany  was 
screwed  into  the  bulkhead  beside  it,  with  the  follow- 
ing inscription  in  brass  letters: 

DON'T  KNOCK. 
COME  IN. 

The  Officer  of  the  Watch  drew  back  the  curtain 
and  motioned  to  his  companion  to  enter.  "Lieu- 
tenant Commander  Standish,  sir,"  he  said. 

The  Commander,  who  was  writing  at  a  knee-hole 
table,  turned  and  rose  with  his  grave,  slow  smile. 

"Come  in,  Bunje,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand. 


ULTIMA  THULE  59 

"Very  glad  you've  got  here  at  last."  He  laid  his 
left  hand  for  an  instant  on  the  India-rubber  Man's 
shoulder  and  searched  his  face  with  kindly  grey 
eyes.  "How're  the  wounds  and  the  wife  and  all  the 
other  things  you've  collected  since  I  saw  you  last?" 

The  India-rubber  Man  laughed. 

"They're  all  right,  sir,  thanks."  He  glanced  at 
the  cap,  with  its  gold  oak  leaves  adorning  the  brim, 
lying  on  the  desk.  "I  haven't  congratulated  you  on 
your  promotion  yet,"  he  added.  "I  was  awfully  glad 
to  hear  you  had  got  your  'brass  hat' !" 

The  Commander  laughed.  "I  still  turn  round 
when  anyone  sings  out  'Number  One,'  "  he  replied. 
"I  was  beginning  to  feel  as  if  I'd  been  a  First  Lieu- 
tenant all  my  life !  Seems  quite  funny  not  to  be 
chivvying  round  after  the  flat-sweepers."  He  re- 
sumed his  seat.  "Well,  you'll  find  a  few  of  the  old 
lot  here :  there's  the  Skipper  of  course,  and  Double-O 
Gerrard — d'you  remember  the  A.P.  ?  And  little 
Pills:  he's  Staff  Surgeon  now,  and  no  end  of  a  nut. 
.  .  .  Let's  see — oh,  yes,  and  young  Bowles :  he  used 
to  be  one  of  our  snotties,  if  you  remember.  'Ked- 
geree,' the  others  called  him.  He's  Sub  of  the  Gun- 
room. That's  about  all  of  the  old  lot  in  the  Channel 
Fleet.  But  I  think  you'll  like  all  the  rest.  It's  a  very 
happy  mess." 

The  India-rubber  Man  was  roving  round  the 
cabin  examining  photographs. 

"Hullo!"  he  said.  "You've  poor  old  Torp's 
photo  here." 


60  THE  LONG  TRICK 

"Yes,"  was  the  reply.  UI — I  met  a  woman 
when  I  was  on  leave,  of  whom  he  was  very  fond. 
She  had  two  of  his  photographs  and  gave  me  that 
one."  The  Commander  had  risen  to  his  feet  and  was 
staring  out  of  the  scuttle  with  absent  eyes.  "But, 
come  along.  The  Skipper  wants  to  see  you,  and 
then  I'll  take  you  along  to  the  mess.  It's  getting 
on  for  lunch  time.  What  sort  of  a  journey  did  you 
have?" 

Still  chatting  they  left  the  superstructure  and 
passed  aft  along  the  spacious  quarterdeck,  where, 
round  the  flanks  of  the  great  superimposed  turrets, 
a  part  of  the  watch  were  sweeping  down  the  deck 
and  squaring  off  ropes.  The  Commander  led  the 
way  down  a  hatchway  aft  to  an  electric-lit  lobby, 
where  a  marine  sentry  clicked  to  attention  as  they 
passed,  and  opened  a  door  in  the  after  bulkhead. 
They  crossed  the  fore  cabin  extending  the  whole 
beam  of  the  ship,  and  entered  the  after  cabin. 

Unlike  other  cabins  on  the  main  deck,  this  was 
lit  by  scuttles  in  the  ship's  side,  and  right  aft,  big 
armoured  doors  opened  on  to  the  stern  walk.  It 
lacked  conspicuously  the  adornments  usually  asso- 
ciated with  the  Captain's  apartment.  Bare  corti- 
cene  covered  the  deck;  the  walls  of  white  enamelled 
steel  were  unadorned  save  for  a  big  scale  chart 
of  the  North  Sea  and  a  coloured  map  of  the  Western 
Front.  A  few  framed  photographs  stood  on  the 
big  roll-topped  desk  in  one  corner,  and  a  bdwl  of 
purple  heather  occupied  the  flat  mahogany  top  to 


ULTIMA  THULE  61 

the  tiled  stove  where  an  electric  radiator  glowed. 
A  bundle  of  singlesticks  and  a  pair  of  foils  stood 
in  the  corner  near  an  open  bookcase;  a  padded 
"chesterfield"  and  a  few  chairs  completed  the  aus- 
tere furnishing  of  the  cabin. 

The  Captain  was  standing  before  a  deal  table 
supported  by  trestles,  which  occupied  the  deck  space 
beneath  the  open  skylight.  On  the  table,  amid  the 
litter  of  glue-pots,  cardboard,  thread  and  varnish, 
stood  a  model  of  a  Super-Dreadnought.  He  turned 
at  the  entry  of  the  Commander  and  his  companion, 
laying  down  a  pair  of  scissors. 

"Good  morning,  Standish,"  he  said.  "Glad  to 
see  you  again.  I  won't  offer  to  shake  hands — mine 
are  covered  with  glue."  He  smiled  in  the  whimsical 
humorous  way  that  always  went  straight  to  another 
man's  heart.  "We're  all  returning  to  our  second 
childhood  up  here,  you  see!"  He  indicated  the 
model.  "This  is  my  device  for  keeping  out  of  mis- 
chief. When  finished  I  hope  it  will  fill  a  similar  role 
for  the  benefit  of  my  son,  Cornelius  James." 

Standish  examined  the  model  with  interest  and 
delight. 

"What  a  ripping  bit  of  work,  sir,"  he  said.  It 
was,  indeed,  a  triumph  of  patient  ingenuity  and 
craftsmanship. 

"It's  an  improvement  on  wood-carving,"  was 
the  reply.  "All  working  parts,  you  see."  The  Cap- 
tain set  in  motion  some  internal  mechanism,  and  the 
turret  guns  trained  slowly  on  to  the  beam.  He 


62  THE  LONG  TRICK 

pressed  a  button.  "Electric  bow  and  steaming 
lights!"  His  voice  had  a  ring  of  almost  boyish 
enthusiasm,  and  he  picked  up  a  tangle  of  threads 
from  the  table.  "But  this  fore-derrick  purchase  is 
the  devil,  though.  All  last  evening  I  was  on  the 
sheaves  of  one  of  the  double  blocks — maddening 
work.  Hornby's  designing  a  hydraulic  lift  to  the 
engine-room ;  column  of  water  concealed  in  the  fore- 
mast, d'you  see?  When's  that  going  to  be  finished, 
Hornby?" 

The  Commander  laughed.  "We'll  have  it  done 
in  time  for  Corney's  birthday,  sir." 

The  Captain  turned  from  the  model.  "Well, 
Standish,"  he  said,  "all  this" — he  nodded  at  the 
work  of  his  patient  hands — "all  this  looks  rather 
as  .if  we  never  had  anything  better  to  do!  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  it's  only  during  the  winter  that  one 
finds  time  for  anything.  We're  pretty  busy,  one  way 
and  another,  you'll  find.  It'll  take  you  some  time 
to  learn  your  way  round  your  turret,  I  expect.  Jakes 
appears  to  find  his  an  object  of  some  interest — do 
you  know  him,  by  the  way?"  The  Captain's  humor- 
ous blue  eyes  twinkled. 

"Yes,  I  travelled  up  with  him,  sir.  He  men- 
tioned the  turret." 

"He  probably  did.  He  spends  most  of  his  life 
in  his.  Well,  I'm  glad  you've  turned  up  in  time 
for  the  Regatta.  Our  Wardroom  crew  wants  a  bit 
of  weight.  I  told  the  Admiral  we  were  going  to 
win  the  cock — the  Squadron  trophy — this  year,  so 


ULTIMA  THULE  63 

you  must  see  what  you  can  do  about  it.  Also,  I 
want  you  to  look  after  the  Midshipmen.  They're 
a  good  lot,  and  there's  one  in  particular — Har- 
court,  isn't  it,  Commander? — who  ought  to  pull  off 
the  Midshipmen's  Lightweights  if  he  can  keep  down 
to  the  weight.  One  or  two  want  shaking  up — Let- 
tigne's  too  fat — —  However,  you  probably  want 
to  sling  your  hammock;  hope  you'll  be  comfortable." 
The  Captain  nodded  dismissal.  As  they  reached  the 
door  the  Captain  spoke  again.  "By  the  way,"  he 
said,  "the  children  send  their  love.  ..." 

"Now,"  said  the  Commander  as  they  emerged, 
"it's  nearly  lunch  time.    Come  along  to  the  smoking- 


room." 


They  ascended  again  to  the  upper  deck  and  for- 
ward of  the  superstructure,  descended  a  hatchway tto 
the  main  deck.  An  open  door  in  the  armoured  bulk- 
head gave  a  glimpse  forward  of  a  gun  battery  and 
a  teeming  mess-deck  intent  on  its  mid-day  meal, 
where  men  jostled  each  other  so  thickly  round  the 
crowded  mess  tables  that  it  seemed  incredible  that 
anyone  could  live  for  years  in  such  surroundings  and 
retain  an  individuality. 

They  turned  away  and  passed  aft  down  an  electric- 
lit  alley-way.  A  door  on  the  right  opened  for  a 
moment  as  they  passed,  and  emitted  the  strains  of 
a  gramophone  and  a  boy's  laughter. 

"That's  the  Gunroom,"  said  the  Commander. 
He  led  the  way  round  a  corner  and  past  the  bloated 
trunk  of  an  air-shaft  to  the  other  side  of  the  ship. 


64  THE  LONG  TRICK 

"Here  we  are,"  he  said,  and  opened  a  mahogany 
door  in  the  white  bulkhead,  stepping  aside  to  allow 
the  other  to  enter  a  smallish  square  apartment  lit 
by  a  skylight  overhead  and  hazy  with  tobacco  smoke. 
A  few  padded  settees  and  arm-chairs  and  a  piano  of 
venerable  aspect,  together  with  a  table  covered  by 
magazines  and  papers,  comprised  the  furniture ;  half- 
a-dozen  coloured  prints  and  a  baize-covered  notice 
board  completed  the  adornment  of  the  walls. 
Through  a  doorway  beyond  came  the  hum  of  con- 
versation and  clatter  of  knives  and  forks,  where,  in 
the  Wardroom,  lunch  had  already  commenced.  About 
half-a-dozen  members  of  the  Mess,  however,  still 
occupied  the  smoking-room;  the  nearest  to  the  door, 
a  short,  slightly  built  Staff  Surgeon,  in  the  act  of 
shaking  angostura  bitters  into  a  glass  which  a  steward 
proffered  on  a  tray,  turned  his  head  as  the  new- 
comers entered. 

"Bunje!"  he  cried,  and  put  the  bitters  down. 
"Bunje !  my  son,  Bunje !  Oh,  frabjous  day,  Calloo, 
Callay !  My  arms  enfold  ye.  ... "  He  enveloped 
the  India-rubber  Man  in  a  bear-like  embrace.  "Be- 
hold the  prodigal  returning!  Steward,  bring  hither 
a  fatted  calf  and  the  swizzle-stick.  Put  a  cherry  in 
it  and  a  slice  of  lemon  and  eke  crushed  ice.  My 
dear  life!"  He  held  the  India-rubber  Man  at  an 
arm's  length.  "Bunje,  these  are  moments  when 
strong  men  sob  like  little  children.  But  let  me  in- 
troduce you." 

The  occupants  of  the   smoking-room,   grinning, 


tJLTIMA  THULE  65 

came  forward  to  greet  the  new  messmate.  The  Staff 
Surgeon  named  them  in  turn. 

"This  is  the  P.M.O.  He's  plus  two  at  golf.  I 
mention  that  in  case  he  offers  to  take  you  ashore  and 
play  you  for  half-a-crown.  P.M.O.,  this  is  Stan- 
dish,  a  wounded  hero  and  a  friend  of  my  care-free 
youth."  The  speaker  rolled  his  r's,  thrust  his  hand 
into  the  bosom  of  his  monkey-jacket  and  struck  a 
histrionic  attitude. 

"Seated  on  the  settee/'  he  resumed,  "caressing 
an  overfed  bull  terrier,  we  have  Tweedledee,  like- 
wise overfed.  Get  up  and  say  how  d'you  do  to  the 
gentleman,  Tweedledee." 

A  short,  chubby-faced  Lieutenant  rose  and  shook 
hands  rather  shyly. 

"Now,"  pursued  the  Doctor,  "casting  our  eyes 
round  the  room  at  random  we  see  the  Pilot — other- 
wise known  as  the  'Merry  Wrecker.'  The  portly 
gentleman  in  clerical  garb  helping  himself  to  a  cigar- 
ette out  of  someone  else's  tin — His  Eminence  the 
Padre.  The  Captain  of  Marines  you  see  consuming 
gin  and  bitters :  title  of  picture,  'Celebrities  and  Their 
Hobbies.'  This  is  the  Engineer  Commander.  He 
is  considerably  senior  to  me  and  I  therefore  refrain 
from  being  witty  at  his  expense.  Taking  advantage 
of  the  general  confusion  caused  by  your  arrival,  the 
First  Lieutenant  selects  this  moment  to  peep  into 
the  turgid  pages  of  an  illustrated  Parisian  journal 
I  regret  to  say  this  mess  contributes  to." 

The  lecturer  paused  for  breath.     A  tall,  florid- 


66  THE  LONG  TRICK 

faced  Lieutenant  Commander  with  a  broken  nose, 
who  had  been  leaning  over  the  paper  table,  pipe  in 
mouth,  straightened  up  with  a  chuckle  and  ostenta- 
tiously fluttered  the  pages  of  the  Times.  He  eyed 
the  Staff  Surgeon  reflectively  for  a  moment  and 
turned  to  the  Captain  of  Marines. 

uHave  we  had  enough,  do  you  think,  Soldier?" 
he  asked  in  a  voice  of  ominous  quiet. 

"I  almost  think  so,"  replied  the  Captain  of 
Marines.  He  finished  his  aperitif  and  stared  absently 
at  the  skylight  overhead. 

"Pills,  dear,"  said  the  First  Lieutenant  in  honeyed 
accents,  "we're  afraid  you  are  showing  off  before 
a  stranger.  There  is  only  one  penalty  for  that." 

"The  Glory-hole,"  said  the  Captain  of  Marines, 
and  hurled  himself  on  the  Staff  Surgeon.  The  First 
Lieutenant  followed  suit,  and  between  them  they 
dragged  their  struggling  victim  to  the  door. 

The  bull  terrier  leaped  around  them  with  hysteri- 
cal yelps  of  excitement. 

"Open  the  door,  Padre,"  gasped  the  Captain  of 
Marines  as  the  struggle  swayed  to  and  fro.  "Garm, 
you  fool,  shut  up !" 

The  Chaplain  complied  with  the  request  with 
alacrity,  and  the  three  interlocked  figures  and  the 
ecstatic  dog  floundered  through  out  into  the  flat. 

Just  outside,  in  an  angle  formed  by  the  armour 
of  the  turret  and  the  Wardroom  bulkhead,  was  a 
small  cupboard.  It  was  used  by  the  flat-sweeper 
and  messengers  for  the  stowage  of  brooms,  polishing 


ULTIMA  THULE  67 

paste,  caustic  soda  and  other  appliances  of  their  craft, 
and  was  just  large  enough  to  hold  a  small  man  up- 
right. 

Into  this  dungeon,  with  the  assistance  of  the 
Navigator,  they  succeeded  in  stowing  the  Staff  Sur- 
geon, and  despite  his  protests  and  frantic  struggles, 
shut  and  fastened  the  door. 

uNow,"  said  the  First  Lieutenant,  "let's  go  and 
have  some  lunch." 

"But  you  aren't  going  to  leave  him  there,  are 
you?"  protested  the  India-rubber  Man. 

"Oh,  no,"  was  the  reply.  "The  Padre  is  taking 
the  time.  Three  minutes  we  give  him."  They  passed 
through  into  the  long  Wardroom  where  a  score  or 
more  of  officers  were  seated  at  lunch  round  the  table 
that  occupied  practically  the  whole  length  of  the 
apartment.  "Come  and  sit  here  next  to  Thorogood 
—you  travelled  up  with  him,  didn't  you?" 

The  officer  in  question,  who  was  ladling  stewed 
prunes  out  of  a  dish  on  to  his  plate,  grinned  at  the 
new-comer. 

"Here  you  are,"  he  said  gaily.  "Pea  soup  and 
boiled  pork,  my  lad,"  and  passed  the  menu. 
"Mouldy's  vanished  since  we  got  onboard.  He's 
probably  lunching  in  his  blessed  old  turret.  I  had 
some  difficulty  in  restraining  him  from  trying  to  put 
his  arms  round  it  when  he  saw  it  again.  Hullo! 
Here's  Pills.  Pills,  you  look  rather  warm  and  your 
hair  wants  brushing." 

"So  would  yours  if  you  had  been  set  upon  by 


68  THE  LONG  TRICK 

Thugs,"  retorted  the  Doctor  as  he  took  his  seat. 
"Pea  soup,  please.  Ha!  There  you  are,  Bunje. 
Sorry  I  had  to  slip  it  across  Number  One  and  the 
Soldier  just  now.  However,  boys  will  be  boys  and 
the  least  said  soonest  mended.  All  is  not  gold 
that  glitters  and  a  faint  heart  never  won  fair  lady — 
pass  the  salt,  please." 

"  'Fraid  we're  rather  a  noisy  mess,"  said  the 
Commander.  "You  don't  get  much  chance  to  sit 
and  think  beautiful  thoughts  when  Pills  is  about. 
Hope  you'll  get  used  to  it." 

The  India-rubber  Man  laughed.  "I  expect  so," 
he  said. 


CHAPTER  IV 
WAR  BABIES 

"pROPERLYatease!  .  .  .  Class, 'Shun!  Left 
1  turn!  Dismiss!" 

The  dozen  or  so  of  flannel-clad  Midshipmen 
composing  the  class  sprang  stiffly  to  attention,  turned 
forward,  and  made  off  briskly  in  the  direction  of 
the  hatchway.  The  India-rubber  Man  thrust  his 
hands  into  the  pockets  of  his  flannel  trousers  and 
strolled  across  the  quarterdeck  to  where  the  Officer 
of  the  Watch  was  standing. 

"Tweedledum,"  he  said,  elevating  his  nose  and 
sniffing  the  keen  morning  air,  "I  can  smell  bacon 
frying  somewhere.  So  could  my  class:  I  could  see 
their  mouths  watering.  You  might  send  for  the  cook 
and  tell  him  not  to  do  it." 

"You're  a  dirty  bully,  Bunje,  you  know,"  said  the 
Officer  of  the  Watch  reprovingly.  "Fancy  dragging 
those  unhappy  children  out  of  their  innocent  ham- 
mocks at  this  unearthly  hour  of  the  morning  to  flap 
their  legs  and  arms  about  and  do  'Knees  up !' 
and  'Double-arm-bend-and-stretch!' '  He  raised  a 
gloved  hand  and  rubbed  his  blue  nose.  Ashore  a 
powdering  of  snow  lay  on  the  distant  hills;  in  the 


69 


70  THE  LONG  TRICK 

East  the  sky  was  flushing  with  bars  of  orange  and 
gold  athwart  the  tumbled  clouds.  An  armed  drifter, 
coming  in  from  the  open  sea,  stood  out  against  the 
light  in  strong  relief.  "Here's  Mouldy  Jakes  coming 
back  from  Night  Patrol — I  bet  even  he  isn't  as  cold 
as  I  am." 

"Rot!"  retorted  the  Physical  Trainer.  "Do  you 
good,  Tweedledum,  to  hop  round  a  bit  on  a  lovely 
morning  like  this !" 

"Hop  round!"  echoed  the  other.  "Hop  round!" 
He  looked  about  him  as  if  searching  for  a  weapon. 
The  dew,  which  everywhere  had  frozen  during  the 
night,  was  slowly  thawing  on  the  canvas  covers  of 
guns  and  searchlights,  dripping  from  shrouds  and 
yards  and  aerials. 

"Lord  alive!"  continued  the  Watchkeeper. 
"Haven't  I  been  hopping  round  this  perishing  quar- 
terdeck since  four  a.m.  keeping  the  Morning  Watch? 
If  Tweedledee  doesn't  come  and  relieve  me  soon  I 
shall  die  of  frostbite  and  boredom."  The  India- 
rubber  Man  was  moving  towards  the  hatchway. 
"And  if  you're  going  along  to  the  bathroom,  for 
pity's  sake  see  there's  some  hot  water  left  that  I  can 
sit  and  thaw  in." 

In  the  meanwhile  the  Midshipmen  had  descended 
to  the  cabin-flat  where  their  chests  occupied  most  of 
the  available  deck  space.  Flushed  and  breathless 
with  exercise,  the  majority  proceeded  to  divest  them- 
selves of  their  flannels  and,  girt  with  towels,  made 
off  for  the  bathroom.  One,  however,  flung  himself 


WAR  BABIES  71 

panting  on  to  his  chest,  and  sprawled  partly  across 
his  own  and  partly  on  his  neighbour's. 

"I  swear  this  is  a  bit  thick!"  he  gasped.  "I'm 
not  used  to  this  sort  of  frightfulness."  He  waved 
his  legs  in  the  air.  "I  shall  get  heart  disease.  Anguis 
pec — pec What's  it  called?" 

"Peccavi,"  prompted  his  neighbour,  slipping  out 
of  his  clothes  and  donning  a  great-coat  in  lieu  of 
a  dressing-gown.  "Otherwise  'The  ruddy  'eart-burn.' 
Just  move  your  greasy  head  off  my  till.  I  want  to 
get  at  my  razor." 

"That's  the  worst  of  these  'new  brooms'  " — the 
victim  of  heart  trouble  surveyed  his  legs  anxiously — 
"I  know  I've  lost  a  couple  of  stone  since  this  phys- 
ical training  fiend  joined.  I  don't  suppose  my  people 
will  know  me  when  I  go  home." 

"Well,  you  aren't  likely  to  be  going  home  for 
some  time  to  come,"  said  another,  a  seraphic-faced 
nudity  contemplating  his  biceps  in  the  small  looking- 
glass  that  adorned  the  inside  of  his  chest,  "so  I 
shouldn't  worry.  I  say,  I'm  sweating  up  a  deuce 
of  an  arm  on  me.  Shouldn't  wonder  if  I  pulled  off 
the  Grand  Fleet  Lightweights  next  month,"  he  added 
modestly,  "if  this  sort  of  thing  goes  on.  I  just  men- 
tion it  in  case  any  of  you  are  thinking  of  putting 
your  names  in."  He  turned  from  the  glass,  laughing. 
"Hullo,  Mally,  going  to  have  a  shave,  old  thing?" 

"Yes,  if  I  can  get  at  my  razor Oh,  Bosh, 

get  off  my  chest — sprawling  all  over  my  gear!" 

"I'm  in  a  state  of  acute  physical  exhaustion.     I 


72  THE  LONG  TRICK 

feel  tender  and  giddy.  I  know  all  this  foul  exercise 
is  bad  for  me  early  in  the  morning."  The  speaker 
sat  up  and  juggled  dexterously  with  a  cake  of  soap, 
a  sponge  and  a  tooth-brush.  "I'm  getting  rather 

good  at  this My  word,  look  at  Mally's  shaving 

outfit.  One  would  think  he  was  a  sort  of  Esau — 
'stead  of  only  having  to  shave  once  a  blooming 
week!" 

"Are  you  going  to  shave,  Mally?"  queried  a 
voice  across  the  flat.  "Because  I'm  not  sure  I 
shouldn't  be  better  for  a  bit  of  a  scrape  myself. 
Can  I  have  a  rub  at  your  razor  after  you?" 

"You  can  have  it  after  me  if  you  swear  not  to 
skylark  with  it,"  replied  the  owner.  "Only,  last  time 
I  lent  it  to  you,  you  shaved  your  beastly  leg " 

"Only  for  practice,"  admitted  the  petitioner, 
advancing  with  a  finger  and  thumb  caressing  his 
chin. 

"Well  it  blunted  it,  anyhow.  Come  on,  I'm 
going  to  the  bathroom  now." 

The  Gunroom  bathroom  was  situated  in  another 
flat,  reached  via  the  aft-deck.  Here  about  this  hour 
an  intermittent  stream  of  figures  in  quaint  neglige 
passed  and  repassed  to  their  toilets.  Inside  the  bath- 
room itself  song  and  the  splashing  of  water  drowned 
all  other  sounds.  The  owner  of  the  enlarged  biceps 
was  seated,  fakir-wise,  cross-legged  in  one  of  the 
shallow,  circular  baths  in  a  corner,  bailing  water  over 
himself  from  an  empty  cigarette  tin. 

"Harcourt,  old  thing,"  said  the  shaving  enthu- 


WAR  BABIES  73 

siast,  who  had  filled  a  bath  and  dragged  it  alongside 
his  friend,  "did  you  mean  what  you  said  just  now 
about  the  boxing  show — are  you  going  to  put  your 
name  down  for  the  Lightweights?" 

The  fakir  stopped  crooning  a  little  song  to  him- 
self and  nodded.  "Yes,  I'm  rather  keen  on  it  as  a 
matter  of  fact.  Standish  saw  me  scrapping  with 
Green  the  other  night  and  sent  for  me  afterwards 
and  told  me  to  get  fit.  I'm  going  to  have  a  shot 
at  it,  I  think.  Wouldn't  you?" 

His  friend  tested  the  temperature  of  the  water 
in  his  bath  with  his  toe,  and  got  in.  "Yes,  rather," 
he  replied,  and  hesitated.  "I'm  going  in  for  it  too," 
he  added. 

Harcourt  rose  and  reached  for  his  towel.  "Are 
you,  Billy?"  For  a  moment  his  eyes  travelled  over 
the  other's  slim  form.  "What  a  rag!  We  may 
draw  each  other — anyhow  we  shall  have  to  scrap  if 
we  get  into  the  semi-finals.  Billy,  I  believe  you'd 
bash  me !"  He  towelled  himself  vigorously. 

The  other  shook  his  head.  "You  beat  me  at 
Dartmouth.  But  I'm  going  to  have  a  jolly  good 
shot  at  it,  cully !"  He  looked  up  with  his  face  cov- 
ered with  soap-suds  and  they  laughed  into  each  other's 
eyes. 

***** 

Breakfast  in  the  Gunroom  was,  to  employ  a 
transatlantic  colloquialism,  some  breakfast. 

There  was  porridge  to  start  with  and  then  a 
bloater,  followed  by  hashed  mutton  and  cold  ham 


74  THE  LONG  TRICK 

("for  them  as  likes  it,"  the  Messman  would  say— 
which  meant  he  pressed  it  on  nobody)  and  marma- 
lade :  perhaps  an  apple  or  two  to  wind  up  with  to 
the  everlasting  honour  of  the  Vegetable  Products 
Committee  who  supplied  them  gratis  to  the  Fleet. 
Then  pipes  and  cigarettes  appeared  from  lockers, 
and  the  temporarily  closed  flood-gates  of  conversa- 
tion reopened.  The  Wireless  Press  Message  was 
discussed  and  two  experts  in  military  strategy  pro- 
ceeded to  demonstrate  with  the  aid  of  two  cruet- 
stands,  a  tea-spoon,  and  the  Worcester  Sauce,  the 
precise  condition  of  affairs  on  the  Western  Front. 
"Mark  you,"  said  one  generously,  "I'm  not  criticis- 
ing either  Haig  or  Joffre.  But  it  seems  to  me  that 
we  should  have  pushed  here" — and  upset  the  Wor- 
cester Sauce. 

This  mishap  to  the  Loos  salient  was  in  process 
of  being  righted  when  the  door  opened  and  a  short, 
square-shouldered  figure,  with  a  wind-reddened  face 
and  eyes  of  a  dark,  dangerous  blue,  entered  the  mess. 
He  came  in  stamping  his  feet  and  blowing  on  his 
hands,  calling  loudly  for  breakfast  the  while.  "My, 
there's  a  good  fug  in  here,"  he  observed  apprecia- 
tively, and  proceeded  to  divest  himself  of  a  duffle 
coat,  and  a  pair  of  night  glasses  which  were  slung 
round  his  neck  in  a  leather  case.  He  stumped  across 
to  the  table,  dragging  his  legs  in  heavy  leather  sea- 
boots  rather  wearily. 

"Am  I  hungry?"  he  demanded,  insinuating  him- 
self with  some  difficulty  between  the  long  form  and 


WAR  BABIES  75 

the  table,  and  sitting  down.  "Oh,  no!  Nothing 
to  speak  of.  Cold?  Not  a  bit:  only  frozen  stiff. 
Any  sleep  last  night?  Rather  1  Nearly  ten  minutes. 
Porridge,  please,  and  pass  the  brown  sugar.'*  The 
remainder  of  his  messmates  appeared  disposed  to 
return  to  strategical  discussion.  uDid  we  have  any 
fun  last  night?"  continued  the  speaker,  raising  his 
voice  slightly.  "Well,  nothing  to  speak  of.  Only 
downed  a  Fritz." 

"Downed  one?"  roared  the  Mess,  galvanized 
suddenly  into  rapt  interest  in  the  new-comer  and  all 
his  works. 

"Yep.  We  were  Outer  Night  Patrol  last  night. 
Me  and  Mouldy  Jakes.  He  does  make  me  smile, 
that  official."  A  plateful  of  porridge  proceeded  to 
pass  rapidly  to  its  last  resting  place. 

"He  might  have  taken  me,"  said  one  of  the  others 
wistfully.  "You  don't  belong  to  his  Division  or  his 
turret  or  anything." 

"It  was  my  turn.  You  went  last  time.  But  you 
missed  something,  I  can  tell  you !" 

"What  d'you  mean,"  said  the  Sub  over  the  top 
of  his  paper.  "Just  cough  up  the  details  and  let 
your  beastly  breakfast  wait." 

The  Night  Patroller  extracted  the  backbone  from 
a  bloater  with  swift  dexterity.  "Well,"  he  continued, 
"it  was  very  dark  last  night  and  foggy  in  patches: 
rum  night.  Very  little  wind  and  no  sea.  We  were 
right  outside  and  the  Engineer  sent  up  to  say  he 
thought  there  was  something  foul  of  the  propeller. 


76  THE  LONG  TRICK 

So  we  stopped  and  investigated  with  a  boathook. 
There  was  a  lot  of  weed  and  stuff  fouling  us.  We 
were  playing  about  with  it  mit  boathook  for  nearly 
a  quarter-of-an-hour,  and  suddenly  old  Mouldy  Jakes 
put  up  his  head  and  sniffed  about  a  bit  and  muttered 
'Baccy.'  " 

"He's  got  a  nose  like  a  hawk,"  said  the  Midship- 
man of  that  officer's  Division  with  a  tinge  of  pride 
in  his  voice. 

The  Mess  perforce  had  to  possess  its  soul  in 
patience  while  the  raconteur  swiftly  disposed  of  the 
bloater. 

4 'So  I  sniffed  too,  and  I  could  smell  it  quite 
plain.  We  were  lying  stern  to  the  wind;  'sides  it 
wasn't  decent  baccy  like  ours,  but  sort  of  Scorp  stuff, 
so  we  knew  it  wasn't  one  of  our  fellows  smoking. 
Hashed  mutton,  please;  and  another  cup  of  coffee. 
It  was  pitch  dark  and  for  a  moment  we  couldn't 
see  a  thing.  Then,  suddenly,  right  on  top  of  us 
came  a  submarine.  She  was  on  the  surface  and  there 
was  a  fellow  on  the  conning  tower  and  a  couple  of 
figures  aft.  She  must  have  been  smelling  about  on 
the  surface  having  a  smoke  and  recharging  her  bat- 
teries." 

The  remainder  of  the  Gunroom  had  crowded 
round  the  speaker,  some  kneeling  on  the  form  with 
their  elbows  among  the  debris  of  breakfast,  others 
sat  on  the  edge  of  the  table  hugging  their  knees. 

"My  word,  Matt,"  said  one,  his  eyes  dancing,  "I 
bet  you  got  cold  feet." 


WAR  BABIES  77 

"Cold  feet!"  snorted  the  hero  of  the  moment. 
"There  wasn't  time  for  cold  feet.  It  was  too  sudden. 
They  just  grazed  past  us,  going  very  slow,  and  there 
was  a  devil  of  a  bobbery.  I  fancy  they  thought 
they  were  properly  in  the  consomme.  A  trap  or 
something.  Anyhow  the  two  braves  aft  lost  their 
heads  and  jumped  overboard,  and  the  bird  in  the 
conning  tower  disappeared  like  a  Jack-in-the-box — 
properly  rattled." 

"What  price  old  Mouldy?"  asked  the  listeners. 
"Utterly  unmoved,  I  suppose !  Lord,  I'd  love  to 
have  seen  him!" 

"Oh,  bored  stiff  by  the  whole  performance,  of 
course.  Still  he  did  make  one  wild  leap  for  the  gun 
and  got  off  a  round  at  point-blank  range.  Hit  her 
just  below  the  conning  tower.  She  must  have  been 
in  diving  trim,  because  she  went  down  like  a 
stone,  bubbling  like  an  empty  soda-water  bot- 
tle." 

"What  about  the  Huns  in  the  water?"  demanded 
the  enthralled  Clerk. 

"We  could  only  find  one.  The  other  must  have 
got  mixed  up  with  the  submarine's  propeller.  The 
one  we  picked  up  was  nearly  done  and  awfully  sur- 
prised because  we  gave  him  dry  clothes  and  hot  drinks 
and  a  smoke,  and  didn't  spit  in  his  eye  or  anything 
of  that  sort.  Said  their  officers  always  told  them  we 
illtreated  our  prisoners.  Aren't  they  Nature's  little 
Nobs?" 

There  was  a  little  silence,  each  one  busy  with 


78  THE  LONG  TRICK 

his  own  thoughts.  Finally  one  broke  the  silence, 
voicing  the  Opinion  of  the  rest: 

"Well,"  he  ejaculated,  "some  people  have  all  the 
blinking  luck.  I've  done  about  twenty  night  patrols 
since  I've  been  up  here  and  never  seen  anything 
'cept  a  porpoise." 

The  Night  Patroller  lit  a  cigarette  and  blew  a 
cloud  of  smoke  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had 
earned  it.  "You  were  at  Suvla  Bay  and  the  landing 
from  the  River  Clyde''  he  retorted.  "You  can't 

have  every  ruddy  thing  in  life." 

***** 

A  fine  day  in  Ultima  Thule — they  were  rare — 
was  an  occasion  for  thankfulness  and  rejoicing. 
Directly  after  luncheon  the  members  of  Gunroom 
and  Wardroom  made  their  way  on  deck  to  bask  in 
the  sun  and  smoke  contemplative  post-prandial  pipes 
in  the  lee  of  the  after  superstructure.  Forward,  in 
amidships,  the  band  was  playing  a  slow  waltz  and 
fifty  or  so  couples  from  among  the  ship's  company 
were  solemnly  revolving  to  the  music  with  expres- 
sions of  melancholy  enjoyment  peculiar  to  such 
exercise. 

"It's  make-and-mend  this  afternoon,"  said  the 
Senior  Midshipman,  tilting  his  cap  over  his  eyes  and 
lazily  watching  the  antics  of  a  gull  volplaning  against 
the  light  wind.  He  sat  on  the  deck  with  his  back 
against  the  superstructure  and  his  hands  clasped 
round  his  knees. 

"It's  a  topping  day,  too,"  added  Malison  from 


WAR  BABIES  79 

his  vantage  astride  the  coir-hawser  reel.  "Too  good 
to  waste  onboard.  The  footer  ground's  bagged — 
let's  have  a  picnic  in  one  of  the  cutters.  Have  tea 
ashore,  an'  fry  bangers  over  a  fire." 

The  project  found  favour  generally.  "We  might 
ask  one  or  two  of  the  Wardroom,"  suggested  Har- 
court.  "Some  of  the  cheery  ones :  Standish  and 
Thorogood  and  the  Doc,  say." 

"And  old  Jakes,"  supplemented  the  Midshipman 
of  that  officer's  Division  jealously.  "I'd  like  to  ask 
him.  He  loves  picnics." 

Mouldy  Jakes  was  included  in  the  invitation  list 
by  general  consent.  His  half-humorous,  resigned 
air  of  chronic  boredom  had  a  peculiar  attraction  for 
all  the  Midshipmen;  in  the  case  of  the  Midshipmen 
of  his  turret  it  amounted  to  idolatry. 

"Go  an'  ask  'em,  Harcourt,"  said  the  Senior  Mid- 
shipman. "You're  the  Blue-eyed  Boy  with  the  Ward- 
room. I'll  go  and  tackle  the  Commander  for  the 
cutter." 

"Then  Bosh  and  I  will  go  and  ginger-up  the 
Messman,"  said  another,  "and  get  a  basket  packed. 
What  shall  we  have  for  tea?" 

"Sloe-gin,"  promptly  responded  a  tall,  pale  Mid- 
shipman with  a  slightly  freckled  nose  and  sandy  hair. 
"Sloe-gin  and  bangers.*  And  get  strawberry  jam: 
see  the  Messman  doesn't  try  and  palm  off  any  of 
his  beastly  gooseberry  stuff  like  he  did  last  time. 

*  Tinned  sausages.    A  delicacy  peculiar  to  Gunrooms  of  the 
Fleet. 


8o  THE  LONG  TRICK 

What  about  bacon  and  eggs,  and  some  tins  of  cocoa 
and  milk,  and  a  cake  and  some  sardines — — " 

"Wonk,"  interrupted  the  caterer,  "we're  only 
going  to  have  tea  ashore.  We  aren't  going  to  camp 
out  for  the  week-end." 

UI  tell  you  what,"  said  Mouldy  Jake's  patron, 
"I'll  bring  my  line  and  we'll  catch  pollack  and  fry 
them  for  tea  too." 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  shift,"  said  Malison,  and  the 
Committee  of  Supply  broke  up  and  passed  down 
below. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  cutter,  manned  and  pro- 
visioned, with  the  skiff  in  tow,  hoisted  her  foresail 
and  sheered  off  from  the  after  gangway.  The  India- 
rubber  Man,  as  Senior  Officer  of  the  expedition,  took 
the  helm  and  banished  the  Young  Doctor  into  the 
bows,  where,  to  judge  by  the  ecstatic  shouts  of  merri- 
ment that  floated  aft,  his  peculiar  form  of  wit  was 
much  appreciated.  Thorogood,  at  the  main  sheet, 
with  an  old  deer-stalker  on  his  head  and  a  pipe  in 
his  mouth,  led  the  chorus  in  the  sternsheets.  Mouldy 
Jakes  had  usurped  the  skiff,  and  having  satisfied  him- 
self that  he  was  required  to  take  no  further  part  in 
the  navigation  of  the  expedition,  made  himself  com- 
fortable in  the  bottom  of  the  boat  and  blinked  at 
the  sky  through  puffs  of  smoke  from  his  pipe. 

He  was  followed  into  this  voluntary  exile  by  the 
Midshipman  of  his  Division,  one  Morton,  who  sat 
in  the  bows  contemplating  him  affectionately. 

Precisely  what  it  was  that  inspired  this  appar- 


WAR  BABIES  81 

ently  one-sided  attachment  was  never  very  apparent. 
The  almost  passionate  loyalty  and  affections  of  youth 
are  hardy  plants,  thriving  abundantly  on  the  scantiest 
soil. 

For  a  while  only  the  drowsy  swish  of  the  water 
past  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  and  snatches  of  merri- 
ment or  song  drifting  aft  from  the  cutter,  broke  the 
silence  in  the  skiff.  Then  Mouldy  Jakes's  companion 
apparently  tired  of  this  silent  communion. 

"Sir,"  he  said,  "would  you  like  to  fish?" 

"No,"  said  Mouldy  Jakes. 

His  host  proceeded  to  unwind  his  line.  "Do  you 
mind  if  I  do?"  he  enquired. 

"No,"  was  the  reply. 

The  Midshipman  watched  his  line  in  silence  for 
a  little  while.  "Do  you  think  you  sank  that  sub- 
marine last  night?"  he  asked  presently. 

Mouldy  Jakes  closed  his  eyes  and  gave  a  grunt 
with  an  affirmative  intonation. 

"It  must  have  been  a  topping  show.  Weren't 
you  awfully  bucked,  sir?" 

Another  grunt. 

"I  suppose  you  didn't  get  a  wink  of  sleep  all 
night?" 

A  vague  confirmatory  noise. 

"You  must  be  jolly  tired,  sir.  Wouldn't  you 
like  to  sleep  a  bit  now,  sir?" 

"Yes." 

"Right  ho,  sir.  You  can  carry  on  and  have  a 
jolly  good  caulk.  I'm  going  to  fish,  and  I'll  call 


82  THE  LONG  TRICK 

you  when  we  get  to  the  island  where  we're  going  to 
land.  .  .  .  Is  your  head  quite  comfortable?" 

Silence  reigned  in  the  skiff. 

The  cutter  had  passed  beyond  the  outskirts  of 
the  Fleet,  and  the  decorum  required  of  the  occupants 
of  a  Service  boat  in  such  surroundings  no  longer 
ruled  their  behaviour.  They  sang  and  shouted  for 
sheer  joy  of  bellowing,  full-lunged,  across  the  un- 
trammelled water.  No  one  whose  life  is  not  spent  in 
the  narrow  confines  of  a  man-of-war,  walking  paths 
sternly  ruled  by  Naval  Discipline,  can  realise  the 
intoxicating  effect  of  such  an  emancipation.  The 
mysterious  workings  of  the  Midshipman-mind  found 
full  play  on  these  occasions,  as  they  tumbled  about 
in  the  bottom  of  the  boat  in  the  unfettered  enjoy- 
ment of  a  whole-hearted  "scrap."  If  you  have 
ever  seen  young  foxes  at  play,  buffeting  each  other, 
yelping  with  simulated  anguish,  nuzzling  endear- 
ments half  savage  and  half  in  play,  you  have  an  idea 
of  the  bottom  of  a  cutter  full  of  Midshipmen  pro- 
ceeding on  a  picnic.  It  was  an  embodiment  of  youth 
triumphant,  shouting  with  laughter  at  the  Jest  of  Life. 

"Where  shall  we  go?"  asked  Standish,  smiling, 
during  a  lull  when  the  crew  sat  panting  and  flushed 
with  exertion,  grinning  at  each  other  over  the  tops 
of  the  thwarts. 

"Any  blooming  where,"  shouted  Thorogood. 
"As  long  as  it  is  out  of  sight  of  the  Fleet.  I  feel 
I've  seen  enough  of  the  Silent  Navy  for  an  hour  or 
two."  Then  raising  his  voice  he  chanted: 


WAR  BABIES  83 

"Put  me  upon  an  island  where  the  girls  are 
few  ..." 

"Right,"  retorted  the  India-rubber  Man.  "We'll 
go  round  this  little  headland.  Ready  about !  Check 
the  fore  sheet  1  Come  aft  out  of  the  bows,  Pills,  you 
clown,  unless  you  want  us  to  miss  stays." 

"I  don't  want  to  go  to  an  island,"  cried  the 
Surgeon  plaintively,  "where  the  girls  are  few."  He 
surveyed  the  heather-crowned  islets  surrounding 
them  on  all  sides,  the  lonely  haunts  of  cormorants 
and  black-backed  gulls.  "I'm  all  for  houris  and 
sirens  and  whatnots " 

The  foresail  swung  across  and  knocked  him  into 
the  bottom  of  the  boat. 

"You  frail  Ulysses!"  exclaimed  Thorogood,  as 
they  set  sail  on  the  new  course.  "You  aren't  to 
be  trusted  in  these  populous  parts.  We  must  lash 
you  to  the  mast!" 

"And  stop  his  ears  with  cotton-wool,"  said  a 
Midshipman  whose  acquaintance  with  the  classics 
was  still  a  recent,  if  sketchy  acquisition. 

A  party  set  off  into  the  bows  to  put  the  pro- 
posal into  immediate  execution,  but  the  imminence  of 
land  and  a  shout  from  the  helmsman  arrested  them 
in  their  purpose : 

"Down  foresail.  Top  up  mainsail !"  The  cutter, 
with  the  skiff  towing  peacefully  astern,  glided  into 
a  little  bay  where  miniature  cliffs,  some  twenty  feet 
in  height,  rose  from  a  narrow  shale-strewn  beach. 
The  anchor  plashed  overboard. 


84  THE  LONG  TRICK 

"Here  we  are,  here  we  are,  here  we  are  again!" 
carolled  the  Surgeon  lustily.  "Come  alongside,  skiff ! 
The  landing  of  the  Lancashire  Fusiliers  is  about  to 
commence  under  a  withering  fire!" 

A  letter  received  that  morning  from  a  soldier 
brother  who  had  taken  part  in  that  epic  of  human 
gallantry  had  apparently  inspired  the  Young  Doctor. 
He  pointed  ahead  with  a  dramatic  gesture  at  the 
cliffs.  "Yonder  are  the  Turks!  See,  they  fly,  they 
fly!"  A  pair  of  agitated  cormorants,  sunning  them- 
selves on  the  rocks,  flew  seaward  with  outstretched 
necks.  "Lead  on,  brave  lads,  and  I  will  follow!" 

The  skiff  came  bumping  alongside,  and  Mouldy 
Jakes,  galvanized  into  wake  fulness  by  the  confusion 
and  laughter,  found  himself  inextricably  entangled 
in  the  fishing-line,  holding  a  kettle  that  someone 
had  thrust  upon  him  in  one  hand  and  a  frying-pan 
in  the  other.  Half  a  dozen  partly  clad  forms,  fol- 
lowed by  the  Doctor,  flung  themselves  headlong  into 
the  skiff  and  made  for  the  shore.  The  bows  grated 
on  the  shingle  and  they  sprang  out. 

"For  drill  purposes  only,"  explained  the  Surgeon 
breathlessly,  "we  are  Turks!"  Under  his  direction 
they  proceeded  to  collect  pebbles.  UA  withering 
volley  will  accordingly  be  opened  on  the  Lancashire 
Fusiliers." 

Despite  a  heavy  fire  of  pebbles,  the  landing  was 
ultimately  effected;  the  invaders  abandoned  their 
trousers  and  floundered  gallantly  through  the  bullet- 
torn  shallows.  Ensued  a  complete  rout  of  the  Turks, 


WAR  BABIES  85 

who  were  pursued  inland  across  the  heather  with 
triumphant  shouts  and  the  corpse  of  a  seagull,  found 
on  the  beach,  hurled  after  them  from  the  point  of 
a  piece  of  driftwood. 

The  evicted  snipers  eventually  returned  with  their 
caps  full  of  plovers'  eggs,  to  find  a  fire  of  bleached 
twigs  blazing  and  sausages  frizzling  in  the  frying- 
pan.  They  were  handed  mugs  of  hot  tea. 

In  the  phraseology  of  chroniclers  of  Sunday- 
school  treats,  "ample  justice  was  done  to  the  varied 
repast."  Then  it  was  discovered  that  the  tide 
was  falling,  and  a  hasty  re-embarkation  fol- 
lowed. 

Sails  were  hoisted,  the  anchor  weighed,  and  the 
cutter,  with  the  empty  skiff  in  tow,  headed  for  the 
West,  where  the  sun  was  already  setting  in  a  great 
glory  of  gold. 

The  brief  warmth  of  a  Northern  spring  day  had 
passed,  and,  as  they  rounded  the  promontory  and 
the  Fleet  hove  in  sight  once  more,  duffle  coats  and 
mufflers  were  donned  and  a  bottle  of  sloe-gin  un- 
corked. 

"Mug-up!"  cried  the  Sub.  "Mug-up,  and  let's 
get  'appy  and  chatty."  They  crowded  together  in 
the  stern-sheets  for  warmth,  and  presently  Thoro- 
good  started  "John  Brown's  Body  Lies  A-moulder- 
ing  in  the  Grave,"  without  which  no  properly  con- 
ducted picnic  can  come  to  a  fitting  conclusion.  The 
purple  shadows  deepened  in  the  far-off  valleys 
ashore,  and  anon  stole  out  across  the  water,  enfolding 


86  THE  LONG  TRICK 

the  anchored  Fleet  into  the  bosom  of  another  night 
of  a  thousand  vigils. 

It  was  dusk  when  they  reached  the  outlying 
cruisers,  and  nearly  dark  when  the  first  ship  in  the 
Battle  Fleet  hailed  them.  Then  hail  answered  hail 
as  one  Battleship  after  another  rose  towering  above 
them  into  the  darkling  sky,  and  one  by  one  passed 
into  silence  astern. 

Silence  also  had  fallen  on  the  singers.  Seen  thus 
from  an  open  boat  under  the  lowering  wings  of 
night,  there  was  something  awe-inspiring — even  to 
these  who  lived  onboard  them — in  the  stupendous 
fighting  outlines  limned  against  the  last  of  the  light. 
Complete  darkness  reigned  on  board,  but  once  a  dog 
barked,  and  the  strains  of  an  accordion  drifted  across 
the  water  as  reminders  that  each  of  these  menacing 
mysteries  was  the  habitation  of  their  fellow-men.  A 
tiny  pin-point  of  light  winked  from  a  yard-arm  near 
by  to  another  pin-point  in  the  Cruiser  line :  Somebody 
was  answering  an  invitation  to  dinner  at  7.45  p.m., 
with  many  thanks;  then,  reminder  of  sterner  things, 
a  searchlight  leaped  out  spluttering  over  their  heads, 
and  swept  to  and  fro  across  the  sky  like  the  paint- 
brush of  a  giant. 

A  half-drowsy  Midshipman  in  the  bows  of  the 
cutter  watched  the  message  of  hospitality  blinking 
through  space ;  he  consulted  the  luminous  dial  on  his 
wrist.  "H'm,"  he  observed  to  his  companion,  "I 
thought  it  was  getting  on  for  dinner-time.  Funny 
how  quickly  one  gets  hungry  again." 


WAR  BABIES  87 

A  hail  challenged  them  from  the  darkness,  and 
a  towering  outline  loomed  familiarly  ahead. 

"Aye,  aye !"  shouted  the  voice  of  the  India-rubber 
Man  from  the  stern,  adding  in  lower  tones,  "Boat- 
hook  up  forward.  Fore  halliards  in  hand.  .  .  . " 

"Home  again!'*  said  another  voice  in  the  dark- 
ness. "And  so  the  long  day  wears  on.  .  .  ." 


Dinner  in  the  Gunroom  was  over.  One  by  one 
the  occupants  became  engrossed  in  their  wonted  eve- 
ning occupations  and  amusements. 

"Mordaunt,"  said  the  sandy-haired  Midshipman, 
rising  and  opening  the  gramophone,  "would  you 
like  to  hear  George  Robey?" 

The  officer  addressed,  who  was  sitting  at  the 
table  apparently  in  the  throes  of  literary  composition, 
raised  his  head.  "No,"  he  replied,  "I  wouldn't; 
I'm  writing  a  letter.  'Sides  I've  heard  that  record 
at  least  seven  hundred  and  eighty-one  times  already." 

"Can't  help  it,"  retorted  the  musical  enthusiast, 
winding  the  handle  of  the  instrument.  "I  think  he's 
perfectly  priceless !"  He  set  the  needle,  stepped  back 
a  pace  and  stood  beaming  appreciatively  into  the 
vociferous  trumpet  while  the  song  blared  forth. 

"Reminds  me,"  said  Harcourt,  laying  down  a 
novel  and  rising  from  the  corner  of  the  settee  where 
he  had  curled  himself,  "I  must  write  to  my  young 
sister  for  her  birthday.  Lend  me  a  bit  of  your 
notepaper,  Billy." 


88  THE  LONG  TRICK 

His  friend  complied  with  the  request  without 
raising  his  eyes.  "How  d'you  spell  'afford'?"  he 
enquired. 

"Two  f's,"  replied  Harcourt.  "  'Least  I  think 
so.  Can  I  have  a  dip  at  your  ink?" 

"I  thought  it  was  two,  but  it  doesn't  look  right, 
somehow."  The  two  pens  scratched  in  unison. 

Matthews,  the  Midshipman  of  the  previous 
Night  Patrol,  had  stretched  himself  on  an  adja- 
cent settee  and  fallen  asleep  immediately  after 
dinner. 

Lettigne,  otherwise  known  as  "Bosh,"  amused 
himself  by  juggling  with  a  banana,  two  oranges  and 
a  walnut,  relics  of  his  dessert.  His  performance  was 
being  lazily  watched  by  the  Sub  from  the  depths  of 
the  arm-chair  which  he  had  drawn  as  near  to  the 
glowing  stove  as  the  heat  would  allow.  It  presently 
attracted  the  notice  of  two  other  Midshipmen  who 
had  finished  a  game  of  picquet  and  were  casting  about 
them  for  a  fresh  distraction.  This  conversion  of 
edible  objects  into  juggling  paraphernalia  presently 
moved  one  to  protest. 

uWhy  don't  you  eat  that  banana,  Bosh,  instead 
of  chucking  it  about?"  he  enquired. 

"  'Cause  I  can't,"  said  the  exponent  of  leger- 
demain. 

"Why  not?"  queried  the  other. 

"Too  full  already,"  was  the  graceful  response. 
"I'm  just  waiting — waiting  till  the  clouds  roll  by,  so 
to  speak," 


WAR  BABIES  89 

The  two  interlocutors  eyed  each  other  specula- 
tively. 

"Did  you  have  any  dessert?"  asked  one. 

"No,"  was  the  sorrowful  reply.  "My  extra- 
bill's  up." 

Thereupon  they  rose  together  and  fell  straight- 
way upon  the  juggler.  An  equal  division  of  the  spoil 
was  made  while  they  sat  upon  his  prostrate  form,  and 
eaten  to  the  accompaniment  of  searching  prods  into 
their  victim's  anatomy. 

4 'Bosh,  you  ought  to  be  jolly  grateful  to  us,  really. 
You'd  probably  have  appendicitis  if  we  let  you  eat 
all  this — phew!  Mally,  just  feel  here.  .  .  .  Isn't 
he  a  hog!  .  .  ..." 

"Just  like  a  blooming  drum,"  replied  the  other, 
prodding  judicially. 

Over  their  heads  the  tireless  voice  of  the  gramo- 
phone trumpeted  forth  its  song.  The  Sub  who  had 
kept  the  Middle  Watch  the  night  before,  slept  the 
sleep  of  the  tired  just.  The  door  opened  and  a 
Junior  Midshipman  entered  hot-foot.  "Letters,"  he 
shouted.  "Any  letters  to  be  censored?  The  mail's 
closing  to-morrow  morning." 

"Yes,"  replied  the  two  correspondents  at  the 
table,  simultaneously  bringing  their  letters  to  a 
close. 

"Hurry  up,  then,"  said  the  messenger.  "The 
Padre's  waiting  to  censor  them.  He  sent  me  along 
to  see  if  there  were  any  more." 

Mordaunt  folded  his  letter  and  placed  it  in  an 


90  THE  LONG  TRICK 

envelope.  "Got  a  stamp,  Harcourt?  IVe  run  out." 
He  extended  a  penny. 

Harcourt  looked  up,  pen  in  mouth,  thumping  his 
wet  sheet  with  the  blotting  paper.  uln  my  locker — 
I'll  get  you  one  in  a  second." 

"Oh,  do  buck  up,"  wailed  the  messenger.  "I 
want  to  turn  in,  an1  the  Padre's  waiting." 

"All  right,"  retorted  Harcourt.  He  rose  to  his 
feet.  "I  forgot:  little  boys  lose  their  roses  if  they 
don't  get  to  bed  early.  Billy,  shove  that  letter  in 
an  envelope  for  me,  to  save  time,  while  I  get  the 
stamp."  His  friend  complied  with  the  request  and 
picked  up  his  pen  to  address  his  own  epistle.  As 
he  did  so  the  prostrate  juggler,  with  a  sudden,  spas- 
modic recrudescence  of  energy,  flung  his  two  assail- 
ants off  him  and  struggled  to  a  sitting  position.  They 
were  on  him  again  like  wolves,  but  as  they  bore  him 
prostrate  to  the  deck  he  clutched  wildly  at  a  corner 
of  the  table-cloth. 

The  next  moment  the  conflict  was  inextricably 
involved  with  the  table-cloth,  letters,  note-paper,  en- 
velopes and  ink  descending  upon  the  combatants 
in  a  cascade. 

"You  clumsy  owls,"  roared  Harcourt,  returning 
from  his  locker.     "Now,  where's  my  letter?  ....  .    ." 

He  searched  among  the  debris. 

"I  say,  do  buck  up,"  wailed  the  sleepy  voice  on 
the  threshold. 

"Buck  up  ?"  echoed  Harcourt.  "Buck  up !  How 
the  devil  can  I  buck  up — ah,  here  we  are,"  HP 


WAR  BABIES  91 

picked  up  an  envelope,  glanced  carelessly  under  the 
still  open  flap  and  sat  down  to  address  it.  "Got 
yours,  Billy?  Here's  the  stamp." 

"Yes,"  replied  the  other,  grovelling  in  the  dark- 
ness under  the  table.  "This  is  it."  He  reappeared 
with  a  letter  in  his  hand. 

"The  Padre "  again  began  the  impatient 

envoy. 

"All  right — all  right!"  Mordaunt  hurriedly 
affixed  the  stamp  and  addressed  the  envelope  with- 
out looking  at  the  contents.  "Here  you  are,"  he 
said,  holding  it  out.  The  messenger  departed  hastily. 

The  bang  of  the  door  awoke  the  Sub. 

"Now,  then,"  he  said.  "Enough  of  this.  Switch 
off  that  cursed  gramophone.  Get  up  off  the  deck. 
Mop  that  ink  up  and  square  off  the  table-cloth. 
Knock  off  scrapping,  you  three  hooligans." 

The  hooligans  obeyed  reluctantly,  and  sat  pant- 
ing and  dishevelled  on  the  settee.  By  degrees  the 
Mess  resumed  its  tranquillity. 

Harcourt  stretched  his  slim  form  and  yawned 
sleepily.  "I'm  going  to  turn  in  now.  And  to-morrow 
know  all  men  that  I  start  training." 

"That's  right,"  said  Lettigne,  still  panting  and 
adjusting  his  disordered  garments.  "Nothing  like 
being  really  fit — ready  to  go  anywhere  an'  do  any- 
thing— that's  my  motto."  He  rang  the  bell  and 
ordered  a  bottle  of  ginger  beer. 


CHAPTER  V 
UNCLE  BILL 

SIR  WILLIAM  THOROGOOD  rose  from  the 
table  on  which  lay  a  confusion  of  papers,  draw- 
ings and  charts.  He  walked  across  the  cabin  to  the 
tiled  fireplace,  selected  a  cigar  from  his  case,  and 
lit  it  with  precise  care. 

"You're  right,"  he  said.  "You've  put  your 
finger  on  the  weak  spot.  No  one  in  Whitehall  saw 
it,  and  they're  seamen.  I  didn't  see  it,  and — and 
I'm  called  a  scientist."  He  made  an  imperceptible 
inclination  of  his  head  towards  his  companion  as  if 
to  convey  a  compliment. 

The  other  occupant  of  the  broad  cabin  smiled  a 
little  grimly.  "It's  a  question  of  actual  experience," 
he  said.  "Experience  of  this  particular  form  of 
warfare,  and  the  means  of  meeting  it  hitherto  at  our 
disposal." 

He  pencilled  some  figures  on  a  piece  of  paper 
and  studied  them  with  knitted  brows. 

"It's  a  pity,"  he  said  presently.  "You're  on  the 
brink  of  the  most  stupendous  discovery  of  our  day. 
The  submarine  was  a  wonderful  invention,  and  there's 
no  limit  to  the  possibilities  of  its  development — or 
abuse.  Until  an  effective  counter  can  be  devised  it 

92 


UNCLE  BILL  93 

remains  a  very  terrible  menace  to  civilisation  in  the 
hands  of  an  unscrupulous  belligerent." 

Sir  William  smoked  in  silence.  His  thin,  aristo- 
cratic face,  and  his  level  grey  eyes,  had  a  look  of 
fatigue.  "I  was  particularly  glad  to  avail  myself 
of  your  invitation,"  he  said.  "I  wanted  practical 
experience  of  the  conditions  in  the  North  Sea — 
weather  and  visibility.  And,  later  on,  in  the  North 
Atlantic.  I'm  going  over  to  Ireland  next  month." 
His  tired  eyes  followed  the  blue  smoke  curling  up- 
wards. "Of  course,  the  experiments  we  tried  down 
South  answered  all  right  for  short  distances.  That's 
what  rather  deceived  us.  They  were  harbour  trials, 
no  more.  We  want  something  more  exhaustive  than 
that.  And,  as  you  say,  there's  the  pull  of  the  tides 
to  consider.  .  .  .  Confound  the  tide !" 

His  companion  smiled.  "That's  what  Canute 
said.  Or  words  to  that  effect.  But  it  didn't  help 
matters  much." 

"Quite,"  replied  Sir  William  dryly.  "Well,  I 
should  like  to  take  a  patrol  boat  and  one  of  our  sub- 
marines for  a  day  or  two  and  test  that  new  theory — 
to-morrow  if  I  may.  And — while  I  think  of  it — I 
have  promised  a  young  nephew  of  mine  to  dine  with 
him  to-night  in  his  ship,  if  it  in  no  way  inconveniences 
you?" 

The  other  nodded,  and,  reaching  out  his  hand, 

pressed  the  button  of  an  electric  bell  beside  his  desk. 
***** 

It  was  the  hour  preceding  dinner,  and  the  majority 


94  THE  LONG  TRICK 

of  the  members  of  the  Wardroom  had  congregated  in 
the  ante-room  to  discuss  sherry  and  the  day's  affairs 
before  descending  to  their  cabins  to  change.  It  was 
a  cheerful  gathering,  as  the  hour  and  the  place  be- 
tokened, and  the  usual  mild  chaff  flowed  to  and  fro 
in  its  myteriously  appointed  channels. 

In  Naval  communities,  as  in  most  others  where 
men  are  segregated  from  wider  intercourse  by  a 
common  mode  of  life  and  purpose,  each  one  occupies 
the  place  designed  for  him  by  Destiny  for  the  smooth 
working  of  the  whole.  These  types  are  peculiar  to 
no  trade  or  profession.  A  gathering  of  farmers  or 
elders  of  the  Church,  or  even  Christy  Minstrels, 
would,  if  thrown  together  for  a  sufficient  period  of 
time,  and  utterly  dependent  on  one  another  for  daily 
intercourse,  fall  into  the  places  allotted  to  each  by 
temperament  and  heredity.  Each  little  community 
would  own  a  wit  and  a  butt;  the  sentimentalist  and 
the  cynic.  The  churl  by  nature  would  appear  through 
some  veneer  of  manner,  if  only  to  bring  into 
relief  the  finer  qualities  of  his  fellows;  lastly, 
and  most  surely,  one  other  would  jingle  a 
merciful  cap  and  bells,  and  mingle  motley  with  the 
rest. 

The  First  Lieutenant  had  just  come  down  from 
the  upper-deck,  and  stood  warming  his  hands  by  the 
fire.  Big-boned,  blue-eyed,  health  and  vitality  seemed 
to  radiate  from  his  kindly,  forceful  personality.  Of 
all  the  officers  on  board  "Jimmy  the  One"  was,  with 
perhaps  the  exception  of  the  Captain,  most  beloved 


UNCLE  BILL  95 

by  the  men.  A  seaman  to  the  fingertips,  slow  to 
wrath  and  clean  of  speech,  he  had  the  knack  of  get- 
ting the  last  ounce  out  of  tired  men  without  driving 
or  raising  his  voice.  Working  cables  on  the  fore- 
castle in  the  cold  and  snowy  darkness,  when  men's 
faculties  grow  torpid  with  cold,  and  their  safety 
among  the  grinding  cables  depends  more  upon  the 
alert  supervision  of  the  First  Lieutenant  than  the 
mere  instinct  for  self-preservation,  "Jimmy  the  One" 
was  credited  with  powers  allied  to  those  of  the  high 
Gods.  "  'Tween  decks,"  where  the  comfort  and 
cleanliness  of  close  on  eleven  hundred  men  was  mainly 
his  affair,  they  abused,  loved  and  feared  him  with 
whole-hearted  affection.  His  large  football-damaged 
nose  smelt  out  dirt  as  a  Zulu  witch-doctor  smells  out 
magic.  The  majority  of  the  vast  ship's  company — 
seamen  ratings,  at  all  events — he  knew  by  name.  He 
also  presided  over  certain  of  the  lower-deck  amuse- 
ments, and,  at  the  bi-weekly  cinema  shows,  studied 
their  tastes  in  the  matter  of  Charlie  Chaplin  and  the 
Wild  West  with  the  discrimination  of  a  lover  choos- 
ing flowers  for  his  mistress. 

His  own  personal  amusements  were  few.  He 
admitted  possessing  three  books  which  he  read  and 
re-read  in  rotation:  "Peter  Simple,"  "Alice  in  Won- 
derland," and  a  more  recent  discovery,  Owen  Wis- 
ter's  "Virginian."  A  widowed  mother  in  a  York- 
shire dower  house  was  the  only  relative  he  was  ever 
heard  to  refer  to,  and  for  her  benefit  every  Sunday 
afternoon  he  sat  down  for  an  hour,  as  he  had  since 


96  THE  LONG  TRICK 

school-days,  and  wrote  a  boyish,  detailed  chronicle  of 
his  doings  during  the  past  week. 

The  two  watch-keeping  Lieutenants  sat  one  on 
each  arm  of  the  deep-seated  chesterfield  opposite  the 
fire.  They  were  the  Inseparables  of  the  Mess,  knit 
together  in  that  curious  blend  of  antagonistic  and 
sympathetic  traits  of  character  which  binds  young 
men  in  an  austere  affection  passing  the  love  of  woman. 
One  was  short  and  stout,  the  other  tall  and  lean;  an 
illustration  in  the  First  Lieutenant's  edition  of  "Alice 
in  Wonderland"  supplied  them  with  their  nicknames, 
which  they  accepted  from  the  first  without  criticism 
or  demur. 

The  Fleet  Surgeon  sat  between  them  cleaning  a 
pipe  with  a  collection  of  seagull's  feather  gathered 
for  the  purpose  on  the  golf  links  ashore.  He  was 
thin,  a  grey-haired,  silent  man.  His  face,  in  repose, 
was  that  of  a  deliberate  thinker  whose  thoughts  had 
not  led  him  to  an  entirely  happy  goal.  Yet  his  smile 
when  amused  had  a  quality  of  gratitude  to  the  jester, 
not  altogether  without  pathos.  He  had  a  slightly 
cynical  demeanour,  a  bitter  tongue,  and  a  curiously 
sympathetic,  almost  tender  manner  with  the  sick.  He 
was  professedly  a  fierce  woman-hater,  and  when 
ashore  passed  children  quickly  with  averted  eyes. 

Of  a  different  type  was  the  Paymaster,  sunny  as 
a  schoolboy,  irresponsible  in  leisure  hours  as  the 
youngest  member  of  the  Mess.  Perhaps  there  had 
been  a  time  when  he  had  not  found  life  an  altogether 
laughing  matter.  He  had  an  invalid  wife;  his  means 


UNCLE  BILL  97 

were  small,  and  most  of  his  life  had  been  spent  at 
sea.  But  misfortune  seemed  to  have  but  tossed  a 
challenge  to  his  unquenchable  optimism  and  faith  in 
the  mercy  of  God.  He  had  picked  up  the  gage  with 
a  smile,  flung  it  back  with  a  laugh,  and  with  drawn 
blade  joined  the  gallant  band  of  those  who  strive 
eternally  to  defend  the  beleaguered  Citadel  of  Human 
Happiness. 

Others  came  and  went  among  the  gathering :  the 
Engineer  Commander,  fiercely  bearded  and  mous- 
tached,  who  cherished  an  inexplicable  belief  that  a 
studied  soldierly  accent  and  bearing  helped  him  in 
his  path  through  life.  The  Major,  clean-shaven  and 
philosophic;  the  Gunnery  Lieutenant,  preoccupied 
with  his  vast  responsibilities,  a  seaman-scientist  with 
a  reputation  in  the  football  field.  The  Torpedo  Lieu- 
tenant, quiet,  gentle-mannered,  fastidious  in  his  dress 
and  not  given  to  overmuch  speech.  The  Engineer- 
Lieutenant,  whose  outlook  on  life  alternated  between 
moods  of  fierce  hilarity  and  brooding  melancholy, 
according  to  the  tenour  of  a  correspondence  with  a 
distracting  Red  Cross  nursing  sister  exposed  to  the 
perils  of  caring  for  good-looking  military  officers  in 
the  plains  of  Flanders.  Lastly,  the  Captain  of 
Marines;  he  was  the  musician  of  the  Mess,  much  in 
demand  at  sing-songs;  editor,  moreover,  of  the  Ward- 
room magazine,  a  periodical  whose  humour  was  of 
a  turn  mercifully  obscure  to  maiden  aunts.  A  first- 
class  cricketer  and  racquet-player,  a  student  of  human 
nature  with  a  tolerance  for  the  failings  of  others  that 


98  THE  LONG  TRICK 

suggested  a  strain  of  Latin  blood,  and  a  Marine  with 
an  almost  passionate  pride  in  the  great  traditions  of 
his  Corps. 

Such  were  among  the  occupants  of  the  ante-room 
when  Thorogood  entered  the  crowded  room  and 
crossed  over  to  the  door  leading  to  the  Wardroom 
where  the  Marine  waiters  were  laying  the  table. 

"Tell  the  Messman  I've  got  a  guest  to  dinner," 
said  Thorogood  to  the  Corporal  of  the  Wardroom 
servants. 

The  Young  Doctor,  who  was  leaning  against  the 
overmantel  of  the  stove  warming  himself,  crossed 
over  to  Thorogood  with  an  expression  of  portentous 
solemnity  on  his  face. 

"James,"  he  said,  and  laid  a  hand  on  the  other's 
shoulder,  "before  you  get  busy  on  the  wassail-bowl, 
my  lad,  I  should  like  to  remind  you  that  the  boat's 
crew  will  commence  training  for  the  Regatta  at  7 
a.m.  to-morrow.  No  fat-heads  wanted.  Enough 
said." 

The  Gunnery  Lieutenant  looked  up  from  a  game 
of  draughts  with  Double-O  Gerrard,  the  Assistant 
Paymaster.  "Who've  you  got  dining  with  you, 
Jimmy?"  he  asked.  The  introduction  of  "new  blood" 
into  a  Mess,  even  for  the  evening,  is  generally  a 
matter  of  interest  to  the  inmates. 

"An  old  uncle  of  mine,"  was  the  reply.  "He  sig- 
nalled from  the  Flagship  that  he  was  coming  to  din- 
ner. I  don't  know  what  he's  doing  up  here." 

Mouldy  Jakes,  who  was  sitting  on  an  arm  of  the 


UNCLE  BILL  99 

sofa  watching  the  game  of  draughts,  looked  across 
at  Thorogood. 

"Sir  William?"  he  asked.  "Is  that  man  of  mys- 
tery up  here?  What's  he  up  to?" 

"Don't  know,"  replied  Thorogood.  "Dirty  work, 
I  suppose." 

The  Young  Doctor  assumed  an  expression  of 
rapture.  "What!"  he  cried,  "my  old  college  chum 
Sir  William !"  Then  with  a  swift  change  of  mimicry 
he  bent  into  a  senile  pose  with  nodding  head  and 
shaking  fingers,  mumbling  at  his  lips: 

"Ah!  Ah!"  he  wheezed,  "how  time  flies!  I 
mind  the  day  when  he  and  I  were  lads  together — hee- 
hee — brave  lads  .  .  .  Eton  and  Christ  Church 

together "  He  broke  off  into  a  decrepit 

chuckle. 

"Dry  up,  Pills,  you  ass,"  cried  the  Torpedo  Lieu- 
tenant, laughing.  "You  aren't  a  bit  funny — in  fact, 
I'm  not  sure  you  aren't  rather  bad  form." 

"Bad  form?"  echoed  the  First  Lieutenant  "Let 
us  see  now.  What's  the  penalty  for  bad  form,  Pay? 
I've  forgotten." 

"To  be  devoured  by  lions,"  said  the  Paymaster 
calmly,  with  an  eye  on  the  sofa  where  Garm,  the 
bull-terrier,  sprawled  as  usual. 

"That's  right,"  said  the  First  Lieutenant,  "so 
it  is:  devoured  of  lions." 

The  next  moment  the  Doctor  was  tripped  up  into 
the  depths  of  the  sofa,  the  bull-terrier,  thus  rudely 
awakened  from  slumber,  dumped  on  top  of  him,  and 


ioo  THE  LONG  TRICK 

his  struggles  stifled  by  the  bodies  of  the  Paymaster 
and  First  Lieutenant.  "Eat  him,  Garm — Hi!  good 
beastie !  Chew  his  nose,  lick  his  collar  .  .  .1" 

The  great  bull-terrier,  accustomed  to  being  the 
instrument  of  such  summary  execution,  entered  into 
the  game  with  zest,  and  sprawling  across  the  Sur- 
geon's chest,  with  one  massive  paw  on  his  face, 
nuzzled  and  slavered  in  an  abandonment  of  affec- 
tionate gusto. 

"Oh! — oh !— oh  1— pah !— phew !"  The  victim 
writhed  and  spluttered  protests.  "Dry  up — Garm, 
you  great  donkey!  Piff! — you're — smothering — me 
— beast!  Ugh!  my  collar — clean — no  offence — 
Jimmy,  I  'pologise — lemme  get  up  .  .  .  Faugh!" 

In  the  midst  of  the  uproar  the  door  opened  and 
the  Midshipman  of  the  Watch  appeared. 

"Mr.  Thorogood,  sir,"  he  called.  "Someone  to 
see  you." 

The  group  on  the  sofa  broke  up.  The  Surgeon 
sat  up  panting  and  wiping  his  face.  The  dog  jumped 
to  the  deck  and  accompanied  Thorogood  across  to 
the  door,  wagging  a  friendly  tail. 

Sir  William  Thorogood,  hat  in  hand,  with  his 
cloak  over  his  arm,  entered  the  ante-room.  His  eye- 
glass fell  from  his  eye. 

"Hullo,  Uncle  Bill,"  exclaimed  his  nephew. 
"You're  early — nice  and  early — we've  just  started 
training  for  the  Regatta  and  we're  straffing  the  cox- 
swain by  way  of  a  start!  Er — Staff  Surgeon  Tucker, 
Sir  William  Thorogood." 


UNCLE  £IL;L  ici 

The  Surgeon  advanced  with  a  rather  embar- 
rassed grin  and  shook  hands  with  the  eminent 
scientist. 

"I  fancy  I  knew  your  father  once,"  said  the  latter 
smiling.  "He  held  the  chair  of  Comparative  Anat- 
omy— we  were  at  college  together — bless  me! — a 
good  many  years  ago  now."  He  stood  smiling  down 
at  Pills  from  his  lean  height. 

The  Mess  chortled  at  the  Surgeon's  discomfiture. 
Thorogood  turned  to  the  Commander  who  had  just 
then  entered.  "This  is  Commander  Hornby,"  he 
said,  and  introduced  the  two  men.  "There's  Mouldy 
— you  remember  him?"  Mouldy  Jakes  came  over 
and  shook  hands  gravely.  "And  this  is  the  rest  of 
the  Mess."  He  included  the  remainder  with  a  wave 
of  his  hand,  and  Sir  William  acknowledged  the  infor- 
mal general  introduction  with  the  grave,  smiling  self- 
possession  of  the  perfectly  bred  Englishman. 

"Now,"  said  his  nephew,  "what  about  a  cock- 
tail, Uncle  Bill?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mouldy  Jakes,  sharing  with  his 
friend  the  responsibility  of  entertaining  this  eminent 
guest.  "We've  got  rather  a  good  brand — fizzy  ones. 
Do  you  a  power  of  good,  sir!" 

Sir  William  laughed.  "Thank  you,"  he  said, 
"but  fizzy  cocktails  and  I  came  to  the  parting  of  the 
ways  more  years  ago  than  I  care  to  remember.  Per- 
haps I  may  be  allowed  to  join  you  in  a  glass  of 
sherry  .  .  .  ?" 

"Rather,"   said  his  host,   and  gave  the   order. 


roa  THE  LONG  TRICK 

"Well,  Uncle  Bill,"  he  said,  "what  brings  you  up 
to  Ultima  Thule  and  on  board  the  Flagship?" 

The  Scientist  helped  himself  to  a  biscuit  from  the 
tray  on  a  little  table  near  the  door.  "I'm  staying 
with — with  an  old  friend  for  a  few  days,  for  a  change 
of  air,"  he  said.  He  took  the  proffered  glass  of 
sherry  and  sipped  it  appreciatively.  "May  I  con- 
gratulate you  on  your  excellent  sherry?" 

"It's  not  bad,"  said  Mouldy  Jakes.  "I'm  the 
wine  caterer,"  he  added  modestly. 

At  this  juncture  dinner  was  announced  and  they 
passed  through  into  the  long  Wardroom. 

Shaded  electric  lights  hung  down  above  the  table 
that  traversed  the  length  of  the  Mess.  A  number 
of  ornamental  pieces  of  silver  and  trophies  adorned 
the  centre  of  the  table  and  winked  and  glistened 
against  the  dark  mahogany.  Slips  of  white  napery 
ran  down  on  either  side,  on  which  the  glasses,  silver 
and  cutlery  lay.  They  took  their  places,  the  presi- 
dential hammer  tapped,  and  the  Chaplain,  rising, 
offered  brief  thanks.  Immediately  after  a  buzz  of 
conversation  broke  out  generally. 

Sir  William,  on  the  right  of  the  President,  indi- 
cated the  glittering  trophies.  "I  see  you  keep  your 
plate  on  board,"  he  said,  smiling,  "even  in  war." 

The  Commander  laughed.  "Well,"  he  said,  "all 
these  things  we  actually  won  ourselves.  There's  a 
lot  more  stuff — the  things  that  belong  to  the  ship 
itself,  one  commission  as  much  as  another,  and  those 
we  landed.  Then,  if  we  get  sunk,  successive  ships 


UNCLE  BILL  103 

bearing  our  name  will  carry  them,  you  see  ...  yes, 
half  a  glass,  please.  But  all  you  see  here  we  won  at 
battle  practice  just  before  the  war,  boat-racing  and 
so  on.  .  .  .  Incidentally  we  hope  to  win  the  Squadron 
Regatta  this  year.  That  big  one  over  there  was 
from  the  passengers  of  a  burning  ship  we  rescued. 
...  If  we're  sunk  they  may  as  well  go  down  with 
us;  at  least,  that's  how  we  look  at  it.  It  is  only  in 
keeping  with  our  motto,  after  all." 

He  pushed  across  a  silver  menu-holder,  bearing 
the  ship's  crest  and  motto  on  a  scroll  beneath  it.  The 
guest  picked  it  up  and  examined  it.  "What  we  hold 
we  hold,"  he  read.  "Yes,  I  see.  It's  not  a  bad  in- 
terpretation." 

Sir  William  looked  round  the  table  at  the  laugh- 
ing, animated  faces — many  of  them  little  more  than 
boys  seen  through  the  long  perspective  of  his  own 
years. 

The  Chaplain  was  having  "his  leg  hauled."  The 
joke  was  obscure,  and  concerned  an  episode  of  by- 
gone days  which  appeared  to  be  within  the  intimate 
recollection  of  at  least  half  the  number  seated  round 
the  table. 

The  other  half  were  demanding  enlightenment, 
and  in  the  laughter  and  friendly  mischief  on  certain 
faces  Sir  William  read  an  affectionate,  mysterious 
freemasonry  apparently  shared  by  all. 

For  a  moment  he  leaned  back,  contemplating  in 
imagination  the  scores  of  great  ships  surrounding 
them  on  all  sides,  invisible  in  the  night:  in  each 


io4  THE  LONG  TRICK 

Wardroom  there  was  doubtless  a  similar  cheerful 
gathering  beneath  the  shaded  electric  lights.  Musing 
thus,  glancing  from  face  to  face,  and  listening,  half 
uncomprehending,  to  the  laughing  jargon,  he 
glimpsed  for  an  instant  the  indefinable  Spirit  of  the 
Fleet.  Each  of  these  communities,  separated  by  steel 
and  darkness  from  the  other,  shared  it.  It  stretched 
back  into  a  past  of  unforgotten  memories,  linking 
one  and  all  in  a  brotherhood  that  compassed  the 
waters  of  the  earth,  and  bore  their  traditions 
with  unfailing  hands  across  the  hazard  of  the 
future. 

The  meal  drew  to  a  close  and  the  decanters  went 
slowly  round.  Mouldy  Jakes,  from  his  seat  opposite 
the  President,  was  attempting  to  catch  Sir  William's 
eye.  His  nephew  intercepted  and  interpreted  the  ges- 
ticulations. "Mouldy's  recommending  the  Madeira, 
Uncle  Bill,"  said  his  nephew;  "he  evidently  feels  that 
his  reputation  as  wine  caterer  is  at  stake  after  your 
comments  on  the  sherry!" 

Sir  William  laughed  and  filled  his  glass  accord- 
ingly. 

Obedient  to  a  signal  conveyed  to  the  Bandmaster 
by  a  Marine  waiter,  the  band  in  the  flat  outside  came 
suddenly  to  a  stop. 

Down  came  the  President's  hammer,  and  the 
name  of  the  King  preceded  the  raising  of  glasses. 
Then  the  violins  outside  resumed  their  whimpering 
melody;  coffee  followed  a  second  circulation  of  the 
decanters,  and  presently  the  smoke  of  cigars  an4 


UNCLE  BILL  105 

cigarettes  began  to  eddy  across  die  polished 
mahogany. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  Master-at-Arms  entered 
the  Wardroom,  and  stepping  up  to  the  Commander's 
chair,  reported  something  in  a  low  voice.  The  Com- 
mander turned  sideways  to  the  guest  of  the  evening. 
"Will  you  excuse  me  if  I  leave  you?"  he  said.  "I 
have  to  go  the  rounds."  And  rising  from  the  table 
left  a  gap  at  Sir  William's  side.  Intimate  conversa- 
tion between  uncle  and  nephew,  hitherto  impracti- 
cable, was  now  possible. 

"How's  Cecily,  Uncle  Bill?"  asked  James. 
"Which  reminds  me,"  he  added,  "that  I  met  Armi- 
tage  when  I  was  coming  back  from  leave." 

Sir  William  removed  his  cigar  and  contemplated 
the  pale  ash  with  inscrutable  eyes. 

"I  heard  from  Armitage,"  he  replied.  "Did  you 
by  any  chance  meet  his  companion  on  the  jour- 
ney up?" 

James  shook  his  head.  "No,  I  only  saw  Armi- 
tage for  a  moment,  and  that  was  in  the  darkness 
at  the  rail-head.  But  you  haven't  told  me  how 
Cecily  is." 

"She  wants  to  go  to  America,"  replied  his  uncle. 

"America !"  echoed  his  nephew.     "Why?" 

"To  stay  with  an  old  school  friend.  It  seems  she 
wants  to  go  over  for  a  Newport  season." 

"But,"  said  James  and  paused,  "are  you  going 
to  let  her  go,  Uncle  Bill?" 

"She  says  she's  going,"  was  her  guardian's  reply. 


106  THE  LONG  TRICK 

James  smoked  in  silence  for  a  moment. 

"But  Newport,"  he  said.  "Where  on  earth  did 
Cecily  develop  a  taste  for  that  sort  of  life?" 

"Read  about  it  in  a  book,  I  fancy,"  said  Sir 
William. 

"But  it  isn't  the  sort  of  thing  I  can  imagine 
appealing  to  Cecily  in  the  least,"  objected  her  cousin. 
"I  know  what  Cecily  likes — pottering  about  in  old 
tweeds  with  a  dog,  sketching  and  fishing.  I  can't 
see  her  at  Bailey's  Beach  surf-bathing  with  million- 
aires in  the  family  diamonds.  Besides,  what  about 
her  war  work — her  Hospital  Supply  Depot?" 

Sir  William  made  no  answer. 

"Is  she  unhappy  about  anything?"  pursued 
James.  "Has  Armitage  been  making  love  to  her? 
I  know  he  used  to  follow  her  about  like  a  sick  dog, 
but  I  didn't  know  it  upset  her." 

Sir  William  smiled.  "No,"  he  said,  "I  shouldn't 
have  said  so  either.  But  I  don't  claim  any  profound 
insight  into  the  feminine  mind.  All  I  know  is  that 
she  looks  rather  pale,  and  she  has  grown  uncommonly 
quiet.  At  times  she  has  restless  moods  of  rather 
forced  gaiety.  But  the  reason  for  it  all,  I'm  afraid, 
is  beyond  me." 

"Do  you  remember  d'Auvergne?"  asked  his 
nephew  suddenly.  "Podgie  d'Auvergne.  He  spent 
a  summer  leave  with  us  once,  and  he  used  to  come 
up  to  town  a  good  deal  from  Whale  Island  when  he 
was  there.  Do  you  think  Cecily  is  in  love  with 
him?" 


UNCLE  BILL  107 

"Bless  me,"  said  Sir  William  helplessly,  "I  don't 
know.  I  never  remember  her  saying  so.  Do  you 
think  that  would  account  for — for  her  present  mood? 
Women  are  such  curious  beings " 

"I  know  he's  fearfully  gone  on  her,"  said  James, 
"but  he  lost  a  foot  early  in  the  war.  He  hasn't  been 
near  her  since." 

"Why  not?"  asked  the  Scientist  vaguely. 

"Oh,  because — because  he's  fearfully  sensitive 
about  it.  And  he's  frightfully  in  love  with  her.  You 
see,  a  thing  like  that  tells  enormously  when  a  fellow's 
in  love." 

"Does  it?"  enquired  Sir  William.  "Well, 
granted  that  your  theory  is  correct,  I  fail  to  see  what 
I  am  to  do.  I  can't  kidnap  this  young  man  and 
carry  him  to  my  house  like  the  alien  visitor  you  once 
brought  to  disturb  my  peaceful  slumbers." 

"Ah,"  said  James,  "Crabpots!"  He  chuckled 
retrospectively. 

"If  he  has  really  developed  a  neurotic  view  of  his 
injury,  as  you  imply,"  continued  the  older  man,  "it's 
no  use  my  inviting  him,  because  he  would  only  refuse 
to  come." 

"You'll  have  to  work  it  somehow,"  replied  his 
nephew.  "Sea  voyages  aren't  safe  enough  just  now 
— we'd  never  forgive  ourselves  if  we  let  Cecily  go  and 
anything  happened  to  her — or  Podgie  either,"  he 
added  grimly. 

By  twos  and  threes  the  members  of  the  Mess 
had  risen  from  the  table  and  drifted  into  the  ante- 


io8  THE  LONG  TRICK 

room  to  play  bridge,  or  to  their  cabins,  there  to  write 
letters,  read,  or  occupy  themselves  in  wood-carving 
and  kindred  pursuits.  At  a  small  table  in  the  corner 
of  the  long  Mess  the  officers  of  the  Second  Dog 
Watch  had  finished  a  belated  meal,  and  were  yarning 
in  low  voices  over  their  port. 

James  and  his  uncle  alone  remained  seated  at  the 
long  table. 

"Well,"  said  the  former,  "let's  move  on,  Uncle 
Bill.  Would  you  like  a  rubber  of  bridge?" 

"I  can  play  bridge  in  London,"  replied  his  guest, 
rising.  "No,  Jim,  I  think  I'd  like  to  take  this  oppor- 
tunity of  paying  a  visit  to  the  Gunroom.  When  you 
are  my  age  you'll  find  a  peculiar  fascination  about 
youth  and  its  affairs.  Do  you  think  they'd  object  to 
my  intrusion?" 

"They'd  be  awfully  bucked,"  said  James.  "Come 
along."  As  they  passed  out  of  the  door  they  met 
the  Marine  postman  entering  with  his  arms  full  of 
letters  and  papers.  "Hullo,"  he  continued,  "here's 
the  mail — you'll  see  a  Gunroom  devouring  its  letters : 
rather  like  a  visit  to  the  Zoo  about  feeding-time!" 

They  came  to  the  door  of  the  Gunroom,  and 
James,  opening  it,  motioned  his  guest  to  enter.  One 
end  of  the  table  resembled  a  bee  swarm :  a  babel  of 
voices  sounded  as  those  nearest  the  pile  of  letters 
shouted  the  names  of  the  addressees  and  tossed  the 
missives  back  over  their  heads. 

The  two  men  stood  smiling  and  unobserved  in  the 
doorway  until  the  distribution  was  complete.  Then 


UNCLE  BILL  109 

they  were  seen,  and  the  Sub  advanced  to  extend  the 
hospitality  of  his  realm. 

"Kedgeree,"  said  James,  "this  is  my  uncle.  He's 
getting  bored  with  the  Wardroom  and  I've  brought 
him  along  here."  The  Sub  laughingly  shook  hands, 
and  the  inmates  in  his  immediate  vicinity  gathered 
round  with  the  polite  air  of  a  community  of  whom 
something  startling  was  expected. 

"Won't  you  sit  down,  sir?"  asked  one,  drawing 
forward  the  battered  wicker  arm-chair.  "It's  all 
right  as  long  as  you  don't  lean  back — but  if  you 
do  we  must  prop  it  against  the  table."  He  suited  the 
action  to  the  words,  and  the  guest  sat  down  rather 
gingerly. 

"Won't  you  have  something  to  drink?"  queried 
Kedgeree.  "Whisky  and  soda  or  something?" 

Sir  William  smilingly  declined. 

"Would  you  care  to  hear  the  gramophone?" 
queried  the  champion  of  that  particular  form  of  en- 
tertainment. "We've  got  some  perfectly  priceless 
George  Robey  ones — have  you  ever  heard  'What 
there  was,  was  Good?' '  He  moved  towards  the 
instrument. 

"Never,"  said  Sir  William,  taking  advantage  of 
the  support  afforded  by  the  table  and  leaning  back, 
"but  nothing  would  give  me  greater  pleasure." 

The  disk  had  no  sooner  commenced  to  revolve 
when  Lettigne  advanced  with  a  soda-water  bottle,  a 
corkscrew  and  half  a  lemon,  collected  at  random 
from  the  sideboard. 


no  THE  LONG  TRICK 

"I  don't  know  if  you  like  watching  a  bit  of  jug- 
gling," he  said  shyly,  and  began  to  throw  into  the 
air  and  catch  his  miscellany,  while  the  trumpet  of 
the  gramophone  proclaimed  that  "What  there  was, 
was  Good,"  in  stentorian,  brazen  shouts. 

Sir  William  screwed  his  eyeglass  tighter  into  his 
eye.  "Remarkable!"  he  said  warmly.  "A  remark- 
ably deft  performance !  Capital!  Capital!" 

The  Gunroom  eyed  one  another  anxiously.  It 
was  only  a  question  of  moments  before  the  perspiring 
Bosh  smashed  something;  the  gramophone  record 
was  palpably  cracked;  their  powers  of  entertainment 
were  rapidly  reaching  their  climax.  Then  came  a 
diversion.  The  door  opened  and  the  Midshipman 
of  the  Watch  entered. 

"The  Flagship's  barge  has  called  for  you,  sir,"  he 
said. 

The  gramophone  stopped  as  if  by  magic,  and  the 
overheated  juggler  caught  and  retained  the  soda- 
water  bottle,  the  corkscrew  and  the  half  lemon  with 
a  gasp  of  relief. 

Sir  William  rose  regretfully  and  held  out  his 
hand.  "I  have  to  thank  you  all  for  a  very  delightful 
quarter  of  an  hour,"  he  said,  smiling,  and  took  his 
departure  amid  polite  murmurs  of  farewell,  followed 
by  James.  Proof  of  his  appreciation  of  the  enter- 
tainment reached  them  a  week  later  in  the  form  of 
an  enormous  plum  cake,  and  was  followed  thereafter 
at  regular  intervals  by  similar  bounty. 

Lettigne    sat    down    and   wiped    his    forehead. 


UNCLE  BILL  in 

"Phew!"  he  said  when  the  door  had  closed  behind 
the  visitors.  uWho  was  that  old  comic?  I  didn't 
catch  his  name." 

"Sir  William  Thorogood,"  replied  another. 
"He's  full  of  grey-matter."  He  tapped  his  forehead, 
and  stepping  across  to  the  common  bookshelf  indi- 
cated the  back  of  a  text-book  on  advanced  mechanics. 
"That's  one  of  his  little  efforts,"  he  said. 

Lettigne  followed  the  other's  finger.  "Good 
night!"  he  ejaculated.  "Have  I  been  giving  a  dis- 
play of  my  unequalled  talents  for  the  benefit  of  the 
man  who  has  caused  me  more  sleepless  nights  than 
Euclid  himself?  Here  is  poor  old  George  Robey 
been  shouting  himself  hoarse  too " 

"And  I  haven't  even  looked  at  my  mail  yet," 
said  Harcourt,  drawing  an  unopened  letter  from  his 
pocket.  He  slit  the  envelope  and  sat  down  in  the 
vacated  arm-chair.  It  was  from  his  sister  at  school 
in  Eastbourne,  and  enclosed  another  written  in  a 
vaguely  familiar  hand.  Boy  like  he  read  the  enclosure 
first: 

"DEAR  FATHER  [it  ran], — I  have  just  put  my 
name  down  for  the  boxing  championship,  and  I'll 
do  my  best  to  win,  because  I  know  how  awfully  keen 
you  are.  All  the  same,  I  think  it's  a  pity  you  took 
up  that  bet  with  Harcourt's  father  at  the  club.  He 
probably  can  afford  to  lose  and  you  can't.  There 
are  lots  of  things  that  Mother  wants  that  ten  pounds 
would  buy.  Besides,  Harcourt  is  my  best  friend, 


ii2  THE  LONG  TRICK 

and  if  we  both  get  into  the  finals  it  would  be  beastly 
and  like  fighting  for  money.  I  wish  you  hadn't  told 
me.  I  must  end  now.  With  love  to  Mother  and 
Dick.  In  haste,  Your  loving  son,  BILLY." 

Harcourt,  grown  suddenly  rather  pale,  picked 
up  his  sister's  letter  and  read  with  puzzled  brows : 

"DEAR  HARRY, — When  I  opened  your  last  let- 
ter I  found  the  enclosed.  It  had  evidently  been  put 
in  by  mistake,  because  the  envelope  was  in  your  hand- 
writing. I  am  sending  it  back.  .  .  . " 

Harcourt  pursed  up  his  lips  into  a  whistling 
shape  and  refolded  the  enclosure.  It  was  in  Mor- 
daunt's  handwriting.  But  how  did  it  get  into  the 
envelope  he  himself  had  addressed  to  his  sister? 

At  that  moment  Mordaunt  came  across  the  mess 
holding  out  a  letter. 

"Harcourt,"  he  said,  "my  father  has  just  sent 
me  this  letter.  Isn't  it  your  handwriting?" 

Harcourt  took  the  sheet  of  paper  and  glanced  at 
it.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "it's  one  I  wrote  to  my  sister  for 
her  birthday.  And  here's  one  that  she  has  just  sent 
back  to  me.  Is  it  yours  by  any  chance?" 

He  carelessly  extended  the  folded  missive,  and 
summoning  all  his  self-possession,  looked  his  friend 
in  the  eyes  and  smiled  wanly.  "I've  only  just  read 
my  sister's  letter,"  he  went  on.  "She  seemed  rather 
puzzled  ..." 


UNCLE  BILL  113 

Mordaunt  took  the  proffered  letter  and  nodded. 
"Yes,"  he  said,  "it's  mine."  He,  too,  paled  a  little. 
"I  think  I  know  what's  happened.  Do  you  remember 
that  scrap  just  as  we  were  finishing  our  letters  the 
other  night?  Bosh  pulled  the  table-cloth  down  and 
capsized  everything.  Our  letters  got  mixed  up,  and 
we  must  have  addressed  each  other's  envelopes." 

He  stood  turning  the  letter  to  his  father  over  and 
over  in  his  fingers. 

"Well,"  said  Harcourt  reassuringly,  "it  doesn't 
matter  much,  old  thing,  does  it?  I'm  just  going  to 
put  this  in  another  envelope  and  send  it  off  to  my 
sister,  with  a  note  to  explain.  There's  no  harm 
done !  I  don't  suppose  your  letter  was  a  matter  of 
vast  importance  either,  was  it,  Billy?"  He  spoke 
lightly,  in  a  tone  of  amused  indifference;  and  turned 
to  the  locker  where  he  kept  his  writing  materials. 
The  other  walked  over  to  the  stove,  slowly  tearing 
his  letter  into  pieces. 

"No,"  he  said.    "Oh,  no  ...  none  at  all." 


CHAPTER  VI 

WET  BOBS 

A  FLURRY  of  sleet  came  out  of  the  east  where 
1\  a  broad  band  of  light  was  slowly  widening 
into  day. 

The  tarpaulin  cover  to  the  after  hatchway  was 
drawn  aside  as  if  by  a  cautious  hand,  and  the  rather 
sleepy  countenance  of  the  Young  Doctor  peered  out 
into  the  .dawning.  An  expression  of  profound  dis- 
taste spread  over  it,  and  its  owner  emerged  to  the 
quarterdeck.  There  he  stood  shivering,  looking  about 
him  as  if  he  found  the  universe  at  this  hour  a  grossly 
overrated  place.  After  a  few  minutes'  contempla- 
tion of  it  thus,  he  turned  up  the  collar  of  his  great 
coat,  pulled  his  cap  down  until  it  gave  him  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  sort  of  Naval  "Artful  Dodger,"  and 
walked  gloomily  to  the  port  gangway.  The  Officer 
of  the  Watch,  who  was  partaking  of  hot  cocoa  in  the 
shelter  of  the  after  superstructure,  sighted  this  for- 
lorn object. 

"Morning,  Pills!"  he  shouted.  "She's  called 
away:  won't  be  long  now."  He  wiped  his  mouth 
and  came  across  the  deck  to  where  the  other  was 
standing.  "Fine  morning  for  a  pull,"  he  observed, 
throwing  his  nose  into  the  air  and  sniffing  like  a 

114 


WET  BOBS  115 

pointer.  "Smell  the  heather  ?  Lor' !  it  does  me  good 
to  see  all  you  young  fellow-me-lads  turning  up  here 
bright  and  early  with  the  roses  in  your  cheeks." 

The  Young  Doctor  turned  a  gamboge-tinted  eye 
on  the  speaker. 

"Dry  up,"  he  said,  acidly. 

The  Officer  of  the  Watch  was  moved  to  unseemly 
mirth.  "Where's  your  crew,  Pills?  I  don't  like  to 
see  this  hanging-on-to-the-slack  the  first  morning  of 
the  training  season.  You're  too  easy  going  for  a 
cox,  by  a  long  chalk,  my  lad.  You  ought  to  be  going 
round  their  cabins  now  with  a  wet  sponge,  shouting 
'Wet  Bobs!'  and  Tally  Ho!'  and  the  rest  of  it." 

"Dry  up!"  was  the  reply. 

"An  even  temper,  boundless  tact,  a  firm  manner 
and  an  extensive  vocabulary — those  were  the  essen- 
tials of  the  cox  of  a  racing  boat  when  /  was  a  lad 
at  College.  Why  did  they  make  you  cox,  Pills?" 

"  'Cos  I'm  light,"  retorted  the  Doctor.  "  'Cos 
I'm  a  damn  fool,"  he  added  with  a  sudden  access 
of  bitterness.  "Look  here,  Tweedledee,  what  about 
this  bloomin'  boat?  Here  I've  been  standing  for  the 
last  five  minutes — ah,  there  she  is." 

He  gazed  distastefully  at  the  lower  boom,  where 
two  members  of  the  galley's  crew  were  casting  off 
the  painter  that  secured  the  boat  to  the  Jacob's 
ladder. 

"Now,  then,"  said  a  loud  and  cheerful  voice  at 
their  elbows,  "where's  this  boat  we've  been  hearing 
such  a  lot  about?"  A  tall,  athletic  figure  in  football 


u6  THE  LONG  TRICK 

shorts  and  swathed  about  with  many  sweaters,  with 
a  bright  red  cushion  under  his  arm,  stood  gazing  in 
the  direction  of  the  lower  boom.  "Well,  I'm  blowed," 
he  said,  unot  alongside  yet?  You're  a  nice  person, 
Pills,  to  leave  the  organisation  of  a  racing  boat's  crew 
to."  He  looked  round  the  quarterdeck.  "Where're 
all  the  others?  Lazy  hogs!  Here  we  are  with  the 
sun  half  over  the  foreyard  and  the  boat  not  even 
manned. 

The  Surgeon  eyed  him  severely.  "You're  none 
too  smart  on  it  yourself,  Bunje.  Where's  Thoro- 
good?  Where's  Number  One?  Where's  Gerrard? 
Where's — ah,  now  they're  coming." 

A  sleepy-eyed  procession,  athletically  clad,  but 
not  otherwise  conveying  an  impression  of  vast  enthu- 
siasm in  the  venture,  trooped  up  the  hatchway  and 
congregated  in  a  shivering  group  at  the  gang- 
way. 

"When  I  go  away  pulling,"  said  the  First  Lieu- 
tenant, apparently  addressing  a  watchful-eyed  gull 
volplaning  past  with  outstretched  wings,  "when  I  go 
away  pulling,  I  like  to  get  straight  into  the  boat, 
shove  off  and  start  right  in.  It's  this  hanging 
about " 

"It's  Tweedledee's  fault,"  protested  the  coxswain 
bitterly.  "I  wrote  it  down  last  night  on  the  slate. 
He's  too  busy  guzzling  cocoa  to  attend  to  his  job, 
that's  the  truth  of  the  matter.  Are  we  all  here  now, 
anyway  .  .  .  ?"  He  scanned  the  faces  of  his  little 
band  of  heroes.  '"Derreck!"  he  said  suddenly. 


WET  BOBS  117 

"Now,  where's  Derreck?  Really,  this  is  just  about 
the  pink  limit.  How  could  anyone " 

"Hullo,  hullo,  hullo!"  The  form  of  the  Engi- 
neer Lieutenant  emerged  from  the  superstructure 
and  came  skipping  towards  them.  "Sorry,  every- 
body !  Am  I  late  ?  My  perishing  servant  forgot  to 
call  me.  And  then  I  couldn't  find  my  little  short 
pants.  Tweedledee,  I've  just  been  having  a  lap  at  your 
cocoa:  the  Quartermaster  said  it  was  getting  cold." 

"Not  mine,"  replied  the  Officer  of  the  Watch. 
"I've  finished  mine.  You've  probaby  drunk  the 
Commander's.  He  put  it  down  for  a  minute — — " 

The  face  of  the  Engineer  Lieutenant  grew  sud- 
denly anxious.  "Well,  what  about  getting  into  the 
boat  and  shoving  off?  What  are  we  all  standing 
about  getting  cold  for?  I  vote  we  have  a  jolly  good 
pull,  too.  Stay  away  for  half-an-hour  or  so — eh?" 

The  long,  slim  galley  came  at  length  alongside 
under  the  manipulation  of  the  two  rather  apathetic 
members  of  the  galley's  crew,  and  the  officers'  racing 
crew  descended  the  gangway  and  took  possession 
of  her. 

"Now  then,"  said  the  Young  Doctor,  "sort  your- 
selves out:  Number  One  stroke,  Gerrard  bow, 
Bunje " 

"I'm  going  bow,"  said  the  Engineer  Lieutenant. 
"I  pulled  bow  at  Keyham  for  two  years,  and  in 
China—" 

"If  you  stand  there   kagging*   we'll  never   get 

*  Arguing. 


n8  THE  LONG  TRICK 

away/'  interposed  the  coxswain,  "and  the  Commander 
will  want  to  know  who  drank  his  cocoa.  Bunje  second 
stroke,  James  third  stroke.  Derreck,  you're  sec- 
ond bow,  and  Tweedledum  third  bow,  and  for 
heaven's  sake  sit  down  and  stop  gassing,  all  of 
you." 

Thorogood  leaned  forward  and  extended  a 
stretcher  for  inspection. 

"How  the  devil  am  I  to  pull  with  a  stretcher 
like  this,  Pills?"  he  demanded.  "It'll  smash  before 
we've  gone  a  yard." 

"When  I  was  at  Keyham,"  said  the  Engineer 
Lieutenant,  slopping  water  over  the  canvas  parcelling 
on  his  oar  in  a  professional  manner,  "we  used  to 
have  stretchers  made  with " 

"We  don't  want  to  hear  about  Keyham,"  said  the 
First  Lieutenant,  "we  want  to  get  to  work.  Shove 
the  perishing  thing  away,  James,  and  stop  chawing 
your  fat.  If  it's  good  for  Nelson  it's  good  enough 
for  you." 

"Do  we  start  training  in  earnest  to-day?"  de- 
manded the  India-rubber  Man,  gloomily  rubbing  his 
calves.  "Because  I  don't  mind  admitting  that  I  like 
to  start  gradually.  'Another-Little-Drink-Won't-Do- 
Us-Any-Harm'  sort  of  spirit." 

"We  shan't  start  at  all  if  Double-O  Gerrard 
doesn't  find  that  blessed  boat-hook  an'  shove  her  off 
soon,"  retorted  the  long,  lean  third  bow,  speaking 
for  the  first  time. 

"I  can't  see  without  my  glasses,"  complained  the 


WET  BOBS  119 

bow,  fumbling  among  the  blades  of  the  oars. 
"Where  is  the  bloomin'  thing?  Ah,  here  we 
are!" 

"Shove  off  forward!"  bellowed  the  voice  of  the 
coxswain  for  the  third  time. 

The  bow  leaned  his  weight  behind  the  boathook 
against  the  ship's  side,  and  the  bows  of  the  galley 
sheered  off  slowly. 

"We're  awa',"  said  the  India-rubber  Man,  "we're 
awa' !  Lord,  'ow  lovely!" 

They  paddled  desultorily  for  a  few  strokes.  Then 
the  bow  "bucketed"  and  sent  a  shower  of  icy  spray 
over  the  backs  of  the  two  after  oarsmen.  Their 
loud  expostulations  were  followed  by  protests  from 
Tweedledum. 

"My  oar's  got  a  kink!"  he  announced  lugubri- 
ously. 

"Oars!"  said  the  coxswain.  "Now,"  he  said 
grimly,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  reached  the 
limit  of  human  patience,  "I'll  give  you  all  a  minute. 
Ease  up  your  belts,  tie  your  feet  down,  have  a  wash 
and  brush  up,  say  your  prayers,  spit  on  your  hands, 
and  get  comfortable  once  and  for  all.  It's  the  last 
stand-easy  you'll  get.  We're  going  to  pull  round 
the  head  of  the  line  if  it  breaks  blood-vessels." 

The  minute  passed  in  invective  directed  chiefly 
against  the  oars,  the  stretchers,  the  crutches,  the  boat 
generally  and  the  helmsman  in  particular.  At  the 
expiration  of  that  time,  however,  they  all  sat  up  facing 
aft,  with  their  hands  expectantly  gripping  the  looms 


120  THE  LONG  TRICK 

of  their  oars  and  profound  gloom  on  every  coun- 
tenance. 

The  coxswain  contemplated  them  dispassionately. 

"You're  a  cheerful-looking  lot  to  start  out  with 
to  win  the  cup  back!"  was  his  comment.  "Oars 
ready!  'Way  together!" 

The  crew,  like  a  child  that  suddenly  tires  of  being 
naughty,  bent  to  their  oars,  and  the  boat  slid  through 
the  water  under  long,  swinging  strokes.  .  .  ... 


Regatta-day  broke  calm  and  clear.  The  hands 
were  piped  to  breakfast,  and  the  Quartermaster  of 
the  Morning  Watch,  as  the  latest  authority  on  the 
vagaries  of  the  barometer,  entered  the  Petty  Officers' 
mess  with  the  air  of  one  in  the  intimate  confidence 
of  the  High  Gods. 

"Glass  'igh  an'  steady,"  he  announced,  helping 
himself  to  sausage  and  mashed  potatoes.  "We'll 
'ave  it  calm  till  mebbe  five  o'clock,  then  it'll  blow 
from  the  south'ard.  That's  down  the  course.  But 
we  won't  'ave  no  rain  to-day." 

The  Captain  of  the  Forecastle,  who  read  his 
"Old  Moore's  Almanac,"  and  was  susceptible  to 
signs  and  portents,  confirmed  the  optimism  of  the 
Quartermaster. 

"I  'ad  a  dream  last  night,"  he  said.  "I  was 
a-walkin'  with  my  missus  alongside  the  Serpentine — 
in  London,  that  is.  There  was  swans  sailin'  on  it, 
an'  we  was  'eavin  bits  of  bread  to  'em.  'Fred,'  she 


WET  BOBS  121 

says,  'you'll  'ave  it  beautiful  for  your  regatta.  You'll 
win,'  she  says,  'the  Stokers'  Cutters,  the  Vet'rans' 
Skiffs,  the  Orficers'  Gigs,  an'  the  All-comers.'  " 

"That's  along  of  you  eatin'  lobster  for  supper 
last  night,"  said  the  Ship's  Painter,  a  sceptic  who 
had  a  sovereign  on  a  race  not  mentioned  by  the 
Captain  of  the  Forecastle's  wife.  "Wot  about  the 
perishin'  Boys'  Cutters?  Didn't  your  old  Dutch 
say  nothin'  about  them?" 

The  seer  shook  his  head  and  performed  intri- 
cate evolutions  with  a  pin  in  the  cavernous  recesses 
of  his  mouth. 

"Mebbe  she  would  'ave  if  she'd  'ad  the  chanst," 
was  the  reply.  "But  she  didn't  'ave  time  to  say  no 
more  afore  the  Reveille  interrupted  'er,  an'  I  'ad 


to  turn  out." 


The  Quartermaster  of  the  Morning  Watch  con- 
cluded his  repast.  "Well,"  he  said,  "Mebbe  she'll 
tell  you  the  rest  to-night.  Then  we'll  know  'oo's  'oo, 
as  the  sayin'  is.  But  there's  one  crew  as  I'll  put  my 
shirt  on,  an'  that's  the  Orficers'  Gigs." 

"'Ow  about  the  Boys'   Cutters?"  demanded  the 
Ship's  Painter,  whose  sovereign  was  in  jeopardy. 

"An'  the  Vet'rans'  Skiffs,"  echoed  the  Captain 
of  the  Forecastle,  "what  my  wife  mentioned  ?  'Fred,' 
she  says — • — " 

"An*  the  All-Comers,"  interrupted  the  Captain  of 
the  Side,  "wiv  the  Chief  Buffer*  coxin'  the  launch?" 

The  Quartermaster  of  the  Morning  Watch  made 

*  Chief  Boatswain's  Mate. 


122  THE  LONG  TRICK 

a  motion  with  an  enormous  freckled  paw  as  if  strok- 
ing an  invisible  kitten.  "I  ain't  sayin'  nothin'  against 
'em.  Nothin'  at  all.  What  I  says  is,  'Wait  an'  see.' 
I  ain't  a  bettin'  man,  not  meself.  But  if  anyone 
was  to  fancy  an  even  'arf  quid " 

The  shrill  whistle  of  the  call-boy's  pipe  clove  the 
babel  of  the  crowded  mess-deck. 

uA-a-away  Racing  Whaler's  Crew!"  shouted 
the  cracked  high  tenor.  "Man  your  boat!" 

"There  you  are !"  said  the  Blacksmith,  a  silent, 
bearded  man.  "What  are  we  all  'angin'  on  to  the 
slack  for?  Come  on  deck.  That's  the  first  race." 

Regatta-day,  even  in  War-time,  was  a  day  of 
high  carnival.  The  dozen  or  so  of  Battleships  con- 
cerned, each  with  its  crew  of  over  a  thousand  men, 
looked  forward  to  the  event  much  in  the  same  spirit 
as  a  Derby  crowd  that  gathers  over-night  on  Epsom 
Downs.  The  other  Squadrons  of  the  vast  Battle- 
fleet  were  disposed  to  ignore  the  affair;  they  had 
their  own  regattas  to  think  about,  either  in  retrospec- 
tion or  as  an  event  to  come.  But  in  the  Squadron 
immediately  concerned  it  was,  next  to  the  annihila- 
tion of  the  German  Fleet,  the  chief  consideration  of 
their  lives,  and  had  been  for  some  weeks  past. 

For  weeks,  and  in  some  cases  months,  the  racing 
crews  of  launches,  cutters,  gigs,  and  whalers,  officers 
and  men  alike,  had  carried  through  an  arduous  train- 
ing interrupted  only  by  attentions  to  the  King's 
enemies  and  the  inclemencies  of  the  Northern  spring. 
And  now  that  the  day  had  come,  both  spectators  and 


WET  BOBS  123 

crews  moved  in  an  atmosphere  of  holiday  and  genial 
excitement  heated  by  intership  rivalry  to  fever-point. 

A  regatta  is  one  of  the  safety  valves  through 
which  the  ships'  companies  of  the  silent  Fleet  in  the 
North  can  rid  themselves  of  a  little  superfluous  steam. 
Only  those  who  have  shared  the  repressed  monotony 
of  their  unceasing  vigil  can  appreciate  what  such  a 
day  means.  To  be  spared  for  a  few  brief  hours  the 
irksome  round  of  routine,  to  smoke  Woodbines  the 
livelong  day;  to  share,  in  the  grateful  sunlight,  some 
vantage  point  with  a  "Raggie,"  and  join  in  the  full- 
throated,  rapturous  roars  of  excitement  that  sweep 
down  the  mile-long  lane  of  ships  abreast  the  sweating 
crews.  This  is  to  taste  something  of  the  fierce  ex- 
hilaration of  the  Day  that  the  Fleet  is  waiting  for, 
and  has  awaited  throughout  the  weary  years. 

A  Dockyard  tug,  capable  of  accommodating  sev- 
eral hundred  men,  lay  alongside.  The  ship  had 
swung  on  the  tide  at  an  angle  to  the  course  that 
obscured  full  view  of  the  start.  Those  of  the  ship's 
company  who  desired  a  full  complete  spectacle  from 
start  to  finish  were  to  go  away  and  anchor  at  some 
convenient  point  in  the  line,  from  which  an  uninter- 
rupted panorama  could  be  obtained.  The  device  had 
other  advantages:  by  anchoring  midway  down  the 
course  a  flagging  crew  could  be  spurred  on  to  mightier 
efforts  by  shouts  and  execrations,  the  beating  of  gongs, 
hooting  syren  and  foghorns,  whistles  and  impassioned 
entreaties. 

Accordingly  the  more  ardent  supporters  of  the 


i24  THE  LONG  TRICK 

various  crews,  armed  with  all  the  implements  of 
noise  and  encouragement  that  their  ingenuity  could 
devise,  embarked.  They  swarmed  like  bees  over  the 
deck  and  bridgehouse,  they  clung  to  the  rigging  and 
funnel  stays,  and  perched  like  monkeys  on  the  mast 
and  derrick.  Thus  freighted  the  craft  moved  off 
amid  deafening  cheers,  and  took  up  a  position  mid- 
way between  two  Battleships  moored  in  the  centre  of 
the  line.  The  anchor  was  dropped,  and  the  closely 
packed  spectators,  producing  mouth-organs  and  cigar- 
ettes, prepared  to  while  away  the  time  until  the  com- 
mencement of  the  first  race. 

They  belonged  to  a  West-country  ship — that  is  to 
say,  one  manned  from  the  Dockyard  Port  of 
Plymouth.  The  master  of  the  tug,  whose  interest  in 
such  matters  was,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  cosmopol- 
itan, had  anchored  between  two  Portsmouth-manned 
Battleships.  The  position  he  had  selected  com- 
manded a  full  view  of  the  course,  and  there  his 
responsibilities  in  the  affair  ended.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  crews  of  the  two  Battleships  in  question, 
assembled  in  full  strength  on  their  respective  fore- 
castles in  anticipation  of  the  forthcoming  race,  re- 
garded the  arrival  of  the  tug  in  the  light  of  a  diver- 
sion sent  straight  from  Heaven. 

The  tug's  cable  had  scarcely  ceased  to  rattle 
through  the  hawse-pipe  when  the  opening  shots,  deliv- 
ered through  a  megaphone,  rang  out  across  the 
water. 

"'I7llo/    Ifeb-feetf"  bellowed  a  raucous  voice. 


WET  BOBS  125 

"Yeer!  Where  be  tufy  A  roar  of  laughter  followed 
this  sally. 

The  occupants  of  the  tug  were  taken  by  surprise. 
Their  interests  had  hitherto  been  concentrated  in  the 
string  of  whalers  being  towed  down  to  the  distant 
starting-point  by  a  picket  boat.  Before  they  could 
rally  their  forces  a  cross-fire  of  rude  chaff,  winged 
by  uproarious  laughter,  had  opened  on  either  side. 
Catch-word  and  jest,  counter  and  repartee  utterly  un- 
intelligible to  anyone  outside  Lower-deck  circles 
were  hurled  to  and  fro  like  snowballs.  Every  dis- 
creditable incident  of  their  joint  careers  as  units  of 
that  vast  fighting  force,  personalities  that  would  have 
brought  blushes  to  the  cheeks  of  a  Smithfield  porter, 
the  whole  couched  in  the  obscure  jargon  of  Cat- 
water  and  Landport  taverns,  rang  backwards  and 
forwards  across  the  water,  and  withal  the  utmost 
good  humour  and  enjoyment  wreathing  their  faces 
with  smiles. 

The  distant  report  of  a  gun  sounded  and  a  far-off 
roar  of  voices  announced  that  the  first  race  had 
started;  straight-way  the  tumult  subsided,  and  an 
expectant  hush  awaited  the  approach  of  the  line  of 
boats  moving  towards  them  like  a  row  of  furious 
water-beetles. 

The  race  drew  nearer,  and  ship  after  ship  of  the 
line  took  up  the  deep-toned  roar.  The  names  of  the 
ships,  invoked  by  their  respective  ship's  companies 
as  might  the  ancients  have  called  upon  their  Gods, 
blended  in  one  great  volume  of  sound.  The  more 


126  THE  LONG  TRICK 

passionately  interested  supporters  of  the  crews  fol- 
lowed the  strung-out  competitors  in  steam-boats,  and 
added  their  invocations  to  the  rest. 

A  rifle  cracked  on  board  the  end  ship  of  the  line, 
and  the  crew  of  the  leading  boat  collapsed  in 
crumpled  heaps  above  their  oars.  The  race  was  over. 
Onboard  a  ship  half-way  down  the  line  a  frantic  out- 
burst of  cheering  suddenly  predominated  above  all 
other  sounds,  and  continued  unabated  as  the  rifle 
cracked  twice  more  in  quick  succession,  announcing 
that  the  second  and  third  boats  had  ended  the  race. 

A  hoist  of  flags  at  the  masthead  of  the  Flagship 
proclaimed  the  names  of  the  first  three  crews,  dipped, 
and  was  succeeded  by  the  number  of  the  next  race. 
Again  the  gun  in  the  bows  of  the  Umpire's  steam-boat 
sped  the  next  race  upon  its  way,  and  once  more  the 
tumult  of  men's  voices  rose  and  swelled  to  a  gale  of 
sound  that  swept  along  the  line,  and  died  to  the 
tumultuous  cheering  of  a  single  ship. 

A  couple  of  hours  passed  thus,  and  there  re- 
mained one  race  before  dinner,  the  Officers'  Gigs.  The 
events  of  the  forenoon  had  considerably  enhanced 
the  reputation  of  the  Captain  of  the  Forecastle  as  a 
prophet.  Furthermore,  the  result  of  the  Boys'  Race 
had  enriched  the  Ship's  Painter  to  the  extent  of  a 
sovereign.  It  needed  but  the  victory  of  the  Officers' 
Gigs  to  place  the  ship  well  in  sight  of  the  Silver  Cock, 
which  was  the  Squadron  Trophy  for  the  largest 
number  of  points  obtained  by  any  individual  ship. 

The    starting-point   was   the    rallying-place    for 


WET  BOBS  127 

every  available  steam-  and  motor-boat  in  the  Squad- 
ron, crowded  with  enthusiastic  supporters  of  the  dif- 
ferent crews.  The  Dockyard  tug,  with  its  freight  of 
hoarse  yet  still  vociferous  sailor-men,  had  weighed 
her  anchor,  and  moved  down  to  the  end  of  the  line 
preparatory  to  steaming  in  the  wake  of  the  last  race. 

The  Umpire,  in  the  stern  of  an  officious  picket- 
boat,  was  apparently  the  only  dispassionate  partici- 
pator in  the  animated  scene.  The  long,  graceful- 
looking  boats,  each  with  its  crew  of  six,  their  anxious- 
faced  coxswains  crouched  in  the  sterns,  and  tin  flags 
bearing  the  numbers  of  their  ships  in  the  bows,  were 
being  shepherded  into  position.  A  tense  silence  was 
closing  down  on  the  spectators.  It  deepened  as  the 
line  straightened  out,  and  the  motionless  boats 
awaited  the  signal  with  their  oars  poised  in  readiness 
for  the  first  stroke. 

"Up  a  little,  number  seven!"  shouted  the  starter 
wearily  through  his  megaphone.  Two  hours  of  this 
sort  of  thing  robs  even  the  Officers'  Gigs  of  much 
outstanding  interest  to  the  starter. 

"Goo-o-o!"  whispered  one  of  the  watching  men. 
"  'E  don't  'arf  know  'is  job,  the  coxswain  of  that 
boat." 

The  boat  in  question  with  a  single  slow  stroke 
moved  up  obediently. 

"Stand  by!"  sang  the  metallic  voice  again. 
Then— 

Bang!    They  were  off. 

As  if  released  by  the  concussion,  a  wild  pande- 


128  THE  LONG  TRICK 

monium  burst  from  the  waiting  spectators1  throats. 
The  light  boats  sprang  forward  like  things  alive,  and 
in  their  churning  wakes  came  the  crowded  steam- 
boats. 

For  perhaps  two  minutes  the  racing  boats  trav- 
elled as  if  drawn  by  invisible  threads  of  equal  length. 
Then  first  one  and  then  another  dropped  a  little.  The 
bow  of  one  of  the  outside  boats  broke  an  oar,  and 
before  the  oarsman  could  get  the  spare  one  into  the 
crutch  the  boat  slipped  to  the  tail  of  the  race.  The 
spare  oar  shipped,  however,  she  maintained  her  posi- 
tion, and  her  crew  continued  pulling  against  hopeless 
odds  with  pretty  gallantry. 

Half-way  down  the  mile  course  there  were  only 
four  boats  in  it.  The  Flagship's  boat  led  by  perhaps 
a  yard,  with  a  rival  on  either  side  of  her  pulling 
stroke  for  stroke.  Away  to  the  right  and  well  clear, 
the  Young  Doctor  urged  his  crew  on  with  sidelong 
glances  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  at  the  other 
boats. 

"You've  got  'em!"  he  said.  "YouVe  got  'em 
cold.  Steady  does  it!  Quicken  a  fraction,  Number 
One.  Stick  it,  Bow,  stick  it,  lad!" 

The  Flagship's  boat  had  increased  her  lead  to 
half  a  length  ahead  of  her  two  consorts :  the  Young 
Doctor's  crew  held  her  neck  and  neck.  Then  the 
Young  Doctor  cleared  his  dry  throat  and  spoke  with 
the  tongues  of  men  and  fallen  angels.  He  coaxed 
and  encouraged,  he  adjured  and  abused  them  stroke 
by  stroke  towards  their  goal.  The  crew,  with  set, 


WET  BOBS  129 

white  faces  and  staring  eyes  fixed  on  each  other's 
backs,  responded  like  heroes,  but  Double-O  Gerrard 
was  obviously  tiring  and  the  First  Lieutenant's  breath 
was  coming  in  sobs.  They  were  pulling  themselves 
out. 

The  roar  of  voices  on  either  side  of  the  course 
surged  in  their  ears  like  the  sound  of  a  waterfall. 
Astern  of  them  was  the  picket-boat,  a  graceful  feather 
of  spray  falling  away  on  either  side  of  the  stem- 
piece.  A  concourse  of  Wardroom  and  Gunroom  offi- 
cers had  crowded  into  her  bows,  and  the  Commander, 
purple  with  emotion,  bellowed  incoherencies  through 
a  megaphone. 

Then,  with  one  keen  glance  at  the  Flagship's 
crew  and  one  at  the  rapidly  approaching  finishing  line, 
the  Young  Doctor  chose  the  psychological  mo- 
ment. 

"Stand  by!"  he  croaked.  "Now,  all  together— 
spurt?' 

His  crew  responded  with  the  last  ounce  of  energy 
in  their  exhausted  frames.  They  were  blind,  deaf 
and  dumb,  straining,  gasping,  forcing  "heart  and 
nerve  and  sinew"  to  drive  the  leaden  boat  through 
those  last  few  yards.  Suddenly,  far  above  their  heads, 
rang  out  the  crack  of  a  rifle,  and  the  next  instant 
another.  The  crew  collapsed  as  if  shot. 

For  a  moment  none  was  capable  of  speech.  Then 
the  First  Lieutenant  raised  his  head  from  his  hands. 

"Which  is  it,"  he  asked,  "us  or  them?" 

The  Young  Doctor  was  staring  up  at  the  mast- 


130  THE  LONG  TRICK 

head  of  the  Flagship.  A  tangle  of  flags  appeared 
above  the  bridge-screen. 

"I  can't  read  'em,"  he  said.  "Which  is  it? 
Translate,  someone,  for  pity's  sake." 

The  crew  of  the  Flagship's  boat,  lying  abreast 
of  them  a  few  yards  away,  answered  the  question. 
They  turned  towards  their  late  adversaries  and  be- 
gan clapping.  The  next  moment  the  Dockyard  tug 
burst  into  a  triumphant  frenzy,  and  the  picket-boat, 
full  of  cheering,  clapping  mess-mates,  slid  alongside 
to  take  the  painter. 

The  First  Lieutenant  stretched  out  a  large,  blis- 
tered hand.  "Shake,  Pills,"  he  said. 


One  race  is,  after  all,  very  much  like  another. 
Yet  the  afternoon  wore  on  without  any  appreciable 
abatement  in  the  popular  enthusiasm.  And  it  was 
not  without  its  memorable  features.  The  Bandsmen's 
Race  crowned  one  of  the  participators  in  undying 
fame.  This  popular  hero  broke  an  oar  half-way 
through  the  race,  and  rising  to  his  feet  promptly 
sprang  overboard. 

His  spectacular  action  plunged  the  remainder  of 
the  crew  in  hopeless  confusion,  and  he  himself  was 
rescued  with  difficulty  in  a  half-drowned  state  of 
collapse  by  the  Umpire's  boat.  Yet  for  some  occult 
reason  no  feat  of  gallantry  in  action  would  have 
won  him  such  universal  commendation  on  the  Lower- 
deck.  "Nobby  Clark- — 'im  as  jumped  overboard  in 


WET  BOBS  131 

the  Bandsmen's  Race"  was  thereafter  his  designa- 
tion among  his  fellows. 

The  last  race — the  All-comers — did  not  justify 
universal  expectation.  The  treble-banked  launch  was 
indeed  coxed  by  the  Chief  Boatswain's  Mate.  A 
"Funny-party"  in  the  stern,  composed  of  a  clown,  a 
nigger  and  a  stout  seaman  in  female  attire,  added 
their  exhortations  to  the  "Chief  Buffer's"  impas- 
sioned utterances.  But  the  Flagship's  galley,  pulling 
eight  oars,  with  the  coxswain  perched  hazardously 
out  over  the  stern,  won  the  three-mile  tussle,  and 
won  it  well. 

As  the  Quartermaster  of  the  Morning  Watch 
had  foretold,  a  breeze  sprang  up  towards  the  close 
of  the  day.  It  blew  from  the  southward  and  carried 
down  the  lines  a  medley  of  hilarious  sounds. 

A  drifter  hove  in  sight,  shaping  course  for  the 
Fleet  Flagship.  She  was  crowded  to  suffocation  with 
singing,  cheering  sailor-men,  and  secured  to  her 
stumpy  bowsprit  was  a  silver  cock.  As  she  ap- 
proached the  stern  of  the  Flagship,  however,  the 
uproar  subsided,  and  the  densely  thronged  drifter 
was  white  with  upturned,  expectant  faces. 

A  solitary  figure  was  walking  up  and  down  the 
quarterdeck  of  the  Battleship.  He  paused  a  moment, 
suddenly  stepped  right  aft  to  the  rail,  and  smilingly 
clapped  his  hands,  applauding  the  trophy  in  the  bows 
of  the  drifter.  The  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun 
caught  on  the  broad  gold  bands  that  ringed  his  sleeve 
almost  from  cuff  to  elbow. 


132  THE  LONG  TRICK 

A  wild  tumult  of  frantic  cheering  burst  out  almost 
like  an  explosion  from  every  throat  still  capable  of 
emitting  sound.  There  was  gratitude  and  passionate 
loyalty  in  the  demonstration,  and  it  continued  long 
after  the  figure  on  the  quarterdeck  had  turned  away 
and  the  drifter  had  resumed  her  noisy,  triumphant 
tour  of  the  Fleet. 

"That's  what  I  likes  about  fim"  whispered  a 
bearded  seaman  hoarsely,  as  they  swung  off  on  their 
new  course.  "  'E's  that  'Umanf"  He  jerked  his 
head  astern  in  the  direction  of  the  mighty  Battle- 
ship on  whose  vast  quarterdeck  the  man  who  bore 
a  share  of  the  Destiny  of  Europe  on  his  shoulders 
was  still  pacing  thoughtfully  up  and  down. 


CHAPTER  VII 
CARRYING  ON 

THE  fresh  Northern  breeze  sent  the  waves  steeple- 
chasing  across  the  surface  of  the  harbour,  and 
lapping  over  the  hull  of  a  British  Submarine  as  she 
moved  slowly  past  the  anchored  lines  of  the  Battle- 
fleet  towards  the  entrance. 

Her  Commanding  Officer  stood  beside  the  helms- 
man, holding  a  soiled  chart  in  his  hands :  further  aft 
on  the  elliptical  railed  platform  of  the  conning  tower 
a  tall,  angular,  grey-haired  man,  clad  in  civilian  garb, 
stood  talking  to  the  First  Lieutenant.  A  Yeoman  of 
Signals,  his  glass  tucked  into  his  left  arm-pit,  was 
securing  the  halliards  to  the  telescopic  mast,  at  which 
fluttered  a  frayed  White  Ensign.  A  couple  of  figures 
in  sea-boots  and  duffle-coats  were  still  coiling  down 
ropes  and  securing  fenders,  crawling  like  flies  about 
the  whale-backed  hull.  A  hundred  and  fifty  feet 
astern  of  the  conning-tower  the  unseen  propellers 
threw  the  water  into  vortices  that  went  curling  away 
down  the  long  wake. 

"We'll  pick  up  the  trawler  outside,"  said  the 
Lieutenant-Commander,  folding  up  the  chart  and 
sticking  it  into  the  breast  of  his  monkey-jacket.  "Deep 
water  out  there,  and  we  can  play  about."  His  face 
was  burned  by  the  sun  to  the  colour  of  an  old  brick 

133 


i34  THE  LONG  TRICK 

wall;  the  tanned  skin  somehow  made  his  eyes  look 
bluer  and  his  hair  fairer  than  was  actually  the  case : 
it  accentuated  the  whiteness  of  his  teeth,  and  gave  his 
quick  smile  an  oddly  arresting  charm. 

The  elderly  civilian  considered  him  with  grave 
interest  before  replying.  "Thank  you,"  he  said. 
"That's  just  what  I  want  to  do — play  about  1" 

"The  other  experts  are  all  in  the  trawler,  with 
the  apparatus,"  supplemented  the  Lieutenant-Com- 
mander. "We're  under  your  orders,  sir,  for  these 
experiments." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Sir  William  Thorogood, 
Scientist;  he  drew  a  cigar  case  out  of  his  pocket.  "I 
feel  rather  like  a  man  accepting  another's  hospitality 
and  spending  the  day  trying  to  pick  his  brains." 

The  Submarine-Commander  smiled  rather  grimly. 
"You  mean  you're  trying  to  find  a  way  of  cutting 
our  claws  and  making  us  harmless?"  he  said. 

"Well— Fritz's  claws,"  amended  Sir  William. 

"Same  thing,"  replied  the  Lieutenant-Com- 
mander. "What's  ours  to-day  is  theirs  to-morrow — 
figuratively  speakin',  tint  is.  If  it's  sauce  for  the 
goose  it's  sauce  for  the  ^nder — just  tit  for  tat,  this 
game." 

"That,"  said  Sir  William,  "is  rather  a  novel 
point  of  view.  It's  not  exactly  one  that  is  taken  by 
the  bulk  of  people  ashore." 

The  figure  beside  the  helmsman  crinkled  up  his 
eyes  as  he  stared  ahead  and  gave  a  low-voiced  order 
to  the  helmsman.  "Oh?"  he  said.  "I  don't  know 


CARRYING  ON  135 

much  about  what  people  ashore  think,  except  that 
they're  all  rattled  over  this  so-called  Submarine  men- 
ace. Anyone  that's  scared  is  apt  to  cling  to  one  point 
of  view." 

"That  is  so,"  replied  the  Scientist.  "But  I  chose 
to  come  out  with  you  to-day  for  these  experiments 
on  the  principle  of  setting  a  thief  to  catch  a  thief." 

"That's  sound,"  said  the  Submarine  expert.  "Be- 
cause, you  know,  in  the  Navy  we  all  look  at  life  from 
different  points  of  view,  according  to  our  jobs.  No, 
thanks,  I  won't  smoke  till  we  get  outside.  Now, 
those  fellows" — the  speaker  jerked  his  head  astern 
to  the  great  grey  Battleships — "those  big-ship  wallahs 
— they're  only  just  beginning  to  take  Us  seriously. 
I  put  in  my  big-ship  time  at  the  beginning  of  the 
war — we  do  a  year  in  a  big  ship,  you  know,  for  our 
sins — and  the  fellows  in  the  Mess  used  to  jeer  at  Us. 
They  talked  about  their  rams.  ..."  He  laughed. 
"Rams!"  he  repeated.  "They  called  us  pirates. 
P'raps  we  were,  but  we  didn't  carry  bathrooms  in 
those  early  boats — nor  yet  manicure  sets.  .  .  . 
Port  ten!  .  .  .  Ease  to  five — steady!" 

The  speaker  was  silent  for  a  moment,  musing. 
"I  don't  know  that  I  altogether  blame  'em."  He 
turned  to  his  First  Lieutenant,  a  youth  some  years 
his  junior  with  preposterously  long  eyelashes. 
'  'Member  the  manoeuvres  before  the  War?"  The 
other  laughed  and  nodded.  "I  torpedoed  my  revered 
parent's  Battleship,"  continued  the  speaker,  "at  two 
hundred  yards  in  broad  daylight  and  a  flat  calm," 


136  THE  LONG  TRICK 

He  chuckled.  "Lor'  bless  me!  It's  like  a  fairy 
tale,  lookin'  back  on  it  after  two  years  of  war." 

"Haven't  they  rather  altered  their  tune  since, 
though  ?"  asked  the  visitor. 

"A  bit,  yes.  They  don't  quite  know  how  to  take 
us  nowadays.  We  come  in  from  patrol  and  tie  up 
alongside  them  to  give  the  men  the  run  of  the  can- 
teen; they  ask  us  to  dinner  and  give  cinema  shows 
for  the  sailors,  bless  'em.  We're  beginning  to  feel 
quite  the  giddy  heroes  when  we  find  ourselves  among 
the  Battle-fleet." 

"Cold  feet,"  interposed  the  First  Lieutenant. 
"That's  what's  behind  it  all.  We're  It.  ..." 

Sir  William  laughed.  "Well,"  he  said,  "what 
about  those  craft  yonder?  There  I  suppose  you  have 
yet  another  point  of  view?" 

A  division  of  Armed  Trawlers  lumbered  out  of 
their  path,  the  bow  gun  on  each  blunt  forecastle 
rising  and  dipping  as  they  plunged  in  the  incoming 
swell. 

"Ah!"  said  the  Lieutenant-Commander,  "they're 
different.  They  never  had  any  preconceived  notions 
about  us  or  their  own  invulnerability.  The  boot's 
on  the  other  foot  there.  We  used  to  jeer  at  them 
once;  but  now  I'm  not  so  certain.  ..." 

"You  never  know  what  the  hell  they'll  do  next," 
explained  the  Lieutenant  with  the  shadow  of  his  eye- 
lashes on  his  cheek-bone.  "That's  the  trouble.  'They 
knows  nothin'  an'  they  fears  nothin','  "  he  quoted, 
smiling. 


CARRYING  ON  137 

"The  personal  element  comes  in  more,  I  sup- 
pose, in  those  craft,"  said  Sir  William  musingly.  He 
focused  his  glasses  on  a  turf  cabin  ashore.  "The 
Admiral  was  telling  me  that  a  London  brain  specialist 
was  born  in  one  of  those  crofter's  huts." 

The  Submarine  Commander  nodded.  "It's  not 
unlikely,"  he  said.  "These  Northern  fishermen  are 
a  fine  breed.  But  this  patrol  work  has  developed 
a  new  type  of  seaman  altogether.  We've  got  a 
fellow  up  here  huntin'  Fritzes — he's  a  merchant  sea- 
man with  a  commission  in  the  Naval  Reserve.  .  .  . 
There  are  times  when  he  makes  me  frightened,  that 
sportsman.  It's  a  blessing  the  Hun  can't  reproduce 
his  type:  anyhow,  I  haven't  met  any  over  the  other 
side,  or  up  the  Baltic." 

"Name  of  Gedge?"  enquired  Sir  William  dryly. 

"That's  the  lad,"  was  the  reply.  "D'you  know 
him,  sir?" 

"No,  but  I've  heard  of  him." 

"You'll  see  him  presently,"  said  the  other.  "He's 
waiting  for  us  outside  onboard  his  trawler.  If  you 
go  onboard,  have  a  look  at  the  beam  of  his  fore- 
hatch:  rather  interestin'." 

"What  about  it?"  asked  Sir  William. 

"A  little  row  of  notches — that's  all.  He  adds 
another  from  time  to  time,  and  I  feel  sort  of  sorry 
for  Fritz  when  he's  about." 

"Like  rats'  tails  hanging  on  a  stable  door,"  sup- 
plemented the  First  Lieutenant  in  explanation. 

"I  see,"  said  Sir  William.    "This  is  going  to  be 


138  THE  LONG  TRICK 

interesting."  He  pitched  the  stump  of  his  cigar 
overboard  and  turned  up  the  collar  of  his  ulster  as 
the  spray  began  to  drift  past  their  heads. 

"We  work  together  sometimes,"  said  the  Sub- 
marine Officer,  "Gedge  and  I.  Little  stunts,  you 
know.  .  .  .  It's  part  of  my  job,  of  course,  huntin' 
Fritzes,  but  it's  more  than  a  job  with  him:  it's  a 
holy  mission.  That's  why  I'm  a  bit  frightened  of 
him  really."  The  speaker  searched  the  visitor's  face 
with  his  guileless  blue  eyes.  "I'm  afraid  of  meeting 
him  one  day,  unexpectedly,  before  I  can  establish 
our  identity!"  His  quick  smile  flashed  across  his 
sunburnt  face  and  was  gone  again. 

The  Submarine  was  passing  under  frowning  walls 
of  cliff,  and  the  murmur  of  the  surf  thundering  about 
the  caverns  and  buttresses  of  that  rock-bound  coast 
almost  drowned  the  throb  of  the  engines  beneath 
their  feet.  Far  out  to  seaward  a  formation  of  Mine- 
sweeping  Sloops  crept  away  to  the  west.  Close  in- 
shore, where  the  gulls  circled  vociferously,  an  insig- 
nificant trawler  with  a  rusty  funnel  lay  rolling  in 
the  swell.  A  wisp  of  bunting  jerked  to  the  stumpy 
foremast,  and  a  pair  of  hand-flags  zigzagged  above 
the  trawler's  wheel-house.  The  Yeoman  of  Signals 
on  the  Submarine's  conning  tower  stiffened  like  a 
statue  as  he  read  the  message. 

"Says,  'Will  Sir  William  Thor-r-ogood  come 
aboar-r-d,  sir?  If  so,  he'll  send  a  boat.' '  His 
speech  placed  him  at  home  in  these  Northern  lat- 
itudes. 


CARRYING  ON  139 

"Reply,  Tes.     Please  send  boat.1  " 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  Sir  William  was 
climbing  out  of  a  tubby  dinghy  over  the  trawler's 
bulwarks.  A  big  bronzed  man  in  a  jersey  and  sea- 
boots,  wearing  the  monkey-jacket  of  a  Lieutenant  of 
the  Reserve  and  a  uniform  cap  slightly  askew,  came 
forward,  one  enormous  hand  outstretched  in  greet- 
ing. "Pleased  to  meet  you,  sir,"  he  said.  "My 
name's  Gedge." 

Sir  William  shook  hands  and  winced. 

"I've  heard  of  you,"  he  said,  "and  I  was  anxious 
to  meet  you.  What  d'you  think  of  that  toy?" 

He  nodded  aft  at  a  web  of  wire-coils,  vulcanite 
levers  and  brass  keys,  standing  beneath  a  wooden 
shelter  in  the  stern.  Three  or  four  officers  from 
the  Fleet  were  gathered  round  it  with  note-books  in 
their  hands  testing  and  adjusting  amid  its  in- 
tricacies, 

"I've  been  lookin'  at  it,"  admitted  the  big  man 
non-committally.  "It  sounds  like  a  cinch,  but  I  un- 
derstand it  ain't  perfect  yet?" 

"Not  by  what  you  might  call  a  long  chalk,"  was 
the  dry  reply. 

The  big  man  looked  relieved.  "That's  all  right," 
he  said.  "Because  when  it  is  I  guess  I  can  go  right 
along  and  get  to  bed.  That  little  outfit's  going  to 
finish  the  war,  sir." 

"Hardly,"  said  Sir  William.  "But  it's  intended 
to  help  things  in  that  direction.  Unfortunately,  you 
see,  there's  still  a  factor — what  we  call  an  unknown 


140  THE  LONG  TRICK 

quantity "  He  lapsed  into  technical  explana- 
tions. The  other  listened  for  a  while  and  then  shook 
his  head. 

"Maybe  you're  right,"  he  said,  "but  I  couldn't 
say.  I'm  no  scholar — ran  away  from  school  too 

young.  But  it  seems  to  me "  He  lifted  a  booted 

foot  and  rested  it  on  the  low  gunwale.  "Workin* 
at  long  distances,  there's  the  pull  of  the  tides.  ...  .  ." 

Sir  William's  eyeglass  dropped.  He  recovered 
it  and  screwed  it  home. 

"Am  I  right,  sir?"  asked  the  big  man. 

"You  are,"  said  the  Scientist.  "You've  studie'd 
tides,  too,  have  you?" 

The  Submarine  Hunter  chuckled.  "I've  learned 
to  respect  'em,"  he  replied  dryly.  "Down  the  Malay 
Archipelago  I  learned  something  about  tides,  spittin' 
overboard  from  salvage  craft.  ..."  He  stood 
upright.  "Well,  sir,  we'd  better  get  to  business. 
These  gentlemen  here  are  the  brains  of  the  party" — 
he  nodded  at  the  group  aft.  "I'm  only  in  the  pic- 
ture to  put  them  wise  as  to  certain  practical  con- 
ditions of  the  game.  .  .  ."  He  dropped  his  voice 
to  a  confidential  undertone  as  they  walked  aft.  "The 
Navy  scares  me.  It's  so  damned  big,  and  there's  so 
much  gold  lace — and  it's  so  almighty  efficient.  ..." 

Half  an  hour's  discussion  settled  the  modus 
operandi  for  the  experiment.  The  Submarine  Com- 
mander rose  from  the  gunwale  and  tossed  away  his 
cigarette-end,  then  he  grinned  at  the  Submarine 
Hunter  who  stood  with  one  shoulder  against  the 


CARRYING  ON  141 

structure  aft,  shredding  tobacco  into  the  palm  of  his 
hand. 

"Gardez-vous,  Old  Sport!"  he  said,  as  ne  began 
to  climb  down  into  the  dinghy,  where  Sir  William 
joined  him. 

"That's  French,  ain't  it?"  said  the  Submarine 
Hunter.  "Don't  speak  the  lingo." 

One  of  the  Naval  officers  standing  by  the  appa- 
ratus laughed.  "It's  a  challenge,'1  he  said.  "Means 
'Mind  your  eye !'  " 

The  Hunter  jerked  his  clasp  knife  in  the  direction 
of  the  fore-hatch.  "I  can  mind  it  all  right,"  he 
replied  grimly,  and  laughed  with  a  sudden  discon- 
certing bark  of  amusement. 

***** 

"Now,"  said  the  Submarine  Commander  as  the 
pointed  bows  swung  round  for  the  open  sea,  "we'll 
get  way  out  of  it.  Must  keep  on  the  surface  for  a 
while — too  many  short-tempered  little  patrol  boats 
close  in  to  let  us  cruise  with  only  a  periscope  show- 
ing." He  waved  his  hand  in  the  direction  of  count- 
less smudges  of  smoke  ringing  the  clear  horizon. 
"But  once  we're  clear  of  those  we'll  dive  and  hide 
somewhere  for  a  while.  Give  old  man  Gedge  some- 
thing to  scratch  his  head  about,  lookin'  for  us.  Then 
we'll  play  round  and  test  the  apparatus.  .  .  .  You'll 
be  able  to  observe  the  compass  all  the  time,  and  I'll 
give  you  the  distances.  There's  a  young  flood 
making.  ..." 

For  the  space  of  a  couple  of  hours  the  boat  slid 


142  THE  LONG  TRICK 

swiftly  through  the  waves  and  successive  cordons  of 
patrols  passed  them  onwards  with  flickering 
signals.  The  men  onboard  a  line  of  rusty  drifters 
leaned  over  the  sides  of  their  plunging  craft  and 
waved  as  the  jaws  of  their  baleful  traps  opened  to 
let  them  pass  through.  Above  their  heads  a  gull 
circled  inquisitively,  shrilling  the  high,  thin  Song  of 
the  Seventh  Sea:  astern  the  peaks  of  Ultima  Thule 
faded  like  opals  into  the  blue. 

A  little  cluster  of  rocky  islands  rose  at  length 
out  of  the  sea  ahead;  the  Submarine  Commander 
took  a  swift  bearing  and  rolled  up  the  chart. 

"That'll  do,"  he  said;  "now  we'll  dive.  There's 
a  shoal  patch  hereabouts,  and  we'll  sit  on  the  bottom 
and  have  lunch  while  old  man  Gedge  starts  looking 
for  us.  After  lunch  we'll  let  him  get  near  and  try 
a  bit  of  daylight  stalking."  He  glanced  at  the  sun 
overhead.  "Bit  early,  yet  awhile,"  he  added. 

One  by  one,  led  by  Sir  William,  they  descended 
the  steel-runged  ladder  into  the  electric-lit  depths  of 
the  Submarine.  A  hatch  closed  with  a  muffled  clang : 
a  few  curt  orders  were  followed  by  a  succession  of 
gurgles  like  those  of  the  tide  flooding  through  a 
cavern;  the  Commanding  Officer  moved  from  the 
eyepiece  of  the  periscope,  and  gravely  contemplated 
a  needle  creeping  slowly  round  the  face  of  a  large 
dial.  A  Petty  Officer,  with  an  expression  emotionless 
as  that  of  a  traveller  in  a  railway  tunnel,  sat  by  the 
dial  manipulating  a  brass  wheel ;  a  few  feet  away  sat 
a  Leading  Seaman  similarly  employed.  The  eyes  of 


CARRYING  ON  143 

both  men  were  fixed  on  the  hesitating  needle  as  it 
shivered  round.  Finally  the  needle  wavered,  crept 
on  another  inch  and  paused,  trembling.  The  Lieu- 
tenant:Commander  glanced  fore  and  aft,  stripped  off 
a  pair  of  soiled  gauntlets  and  made  a  low-voiced 
observation.  The  two  men,  as  if  released  from  a 
spell,  turned  away  from  their  dials. 

"There  we  are,"  said  the  Captain  cheerfully, 
"sitting  snug  on  a  nice  sandy  bottom  in  ten  fathoms 
of  water.  What's  for  lunch?"  He  led  the  way  for- 
ward to  a  folding  table  between  the  polished 
mahogany  bunks.  "Fried  chops,  ain't  it?"  he  en- 
quired, sniffing. 

They  took  their  seats  on  camp  stools  while  a 
bluejacket  dealt  out  tin  plates  like  playing  cards. 
Sir  William  turned  from  a  scrutiny  of  the  tiny  book- 
shelf over  the  port  bunk.  At  the  head  of  the  bunk 
was  nailed  the  photograph  of  a  girlish  face,  and  in 
close  proximity  to  it  one  of  a  lusty  baby  exploring 
a  fur  rug  apparently  in  search  of  clothes. 

"Not  much  of  a  library,  I'm  afraid,"  said  the 
host,  seating  himself.  "I'm  not  much  of  a  reader 
myself.  The  Sub's  the  bookworm  of  this  boat." 

The  First  Lieutenant  of  the  Submarine  shot  a 
swift  glance  of  suspicion  at  his  Commanding  Officer 
as  he  helped  himself  to  a  chop.  The  look,  however, 
appeared  to  pass  unnoticed. 

"Some  months  ago,"  continued  his  Captain, 
speaking  with  his  mouth  full,  "we  were  caught  in 
shallow  water  over  the  other  side — — "  he  jerked  his 


144  THE  LONG  TRICK 

head  upwards  and  to  the  South  East.  "We  were 
sitting  on  the  bottom  waiting  for  it  to  get  dark  be- 
fore we  came  up  and  charged  batteries.  I  was 
having  a  stretch-off  on  my  bunk  here,  and  the  Sub, 
of  course,  had  his  nose  in  a  book  as  usual.  From 
subsequent  developments  it  appears  that  a  Hun  sea- 
plane saw  us  and  proceeded  to  bomb  us  with  great 
good  will  but  indifferent  success." 

uWe  ought  never  to  have  been  there,"  interrupted 
the  First  Lieutenant  coldly.  "Bad  navigation  on  the 
Captain's  part." 

"Granted,"  said  the  Lieutenant-Commander. 
"The  first  bomb  was  rather  wide  of  the  mark,  but  it 
woke  me,  and  I  saw  the  Sub's  eyelids  flicker.  After 
that  I  watched  him.  The  Hun  bombed  us  steadily 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  (missing  every  time,  of 
course),  and  the  Sub  never  raised  his  eyes  from  his 
book." 

"I  was  interested,"  said  the  First  Lieutenant 
shortly;  his  eyes,  in  one  swift  glance  captain-wards, 
said  more. 

"Quite.  I  was  only  trying  to  prove  you  were 
a  book-worm." 

"What  was  the  book?"  enquired  Sir  William. 

"Oh,  Meredith,  sir.  Richard  something-or- 
another.  Topping  yarn." 

The  guest  steered  the  conversation  out  of  literary 
channels. 

"Were  you  over  the  other  side  much?"  he  asked 
blandly. 


CARRYING  ON  145 

"Pretty  well  all  the  war,  till  we  came  up  North," 
was  the  Lieutenant-Commander's  reply.  "You'll 
have  to  use  the  same  knife  for  the  butter;  hope  you 
don't  mind.  We  get  into  piggish  ways  here,  I'm 
afraid.  ...  Amusin'  work  at  times,  but  nothing  to 
the  Dardanelles;  we  never  got  out  there,  though; 
spent  all  our  time  nuzzling  sandbanks  off  the  Ems 
and  thereabouts.  Of  course,  one  sees  more  of  Fritz 
in  that  way,  but  I  can't  say  it  exactly  heightens  one's 
opinion  of  him.  We  used  to  think  at  the  beginning 
of  the  war  that  Fritz  was  a  sportsman — for  a  Ger- 
man, you  know.  But  he's  really  just  a  dirty  dog 
taking  very  kindly  to  the  teaching  of  bigger  and 
dirtier  dogs  than  himself." 

Sir  William  pondered  this  intelligence.  "That's 
the  generally  accepted  theory,"  he  said. 

"They  may  have  had  some  white  men  in  their 
submarines  at  one  time,  but  we've  either  downed 
them  or  they've  got  Prussianized.  They've  dis- 
graced the  very  word  submarine  to  all  eternity."  The 
speaker  shook  his  head  over  the  besmirched  escutch- 
eon of  his  young  profession. 

"They're  cowards,  all  right,"  added  the  Lieu- 
tenant. "  'Member  that  Fritz  we  chased  all  the  way 
to  Heligoland  on  the  surface?" 

"Yep.  Signalled  to  him  with  a  flashing  lamp  to 
stop  and  fight:  called  him  every  dirty  name  we  could 
lay  our  tongues  on.  Think  he'd  turn  and  have  it  out? 
Not  much !  .  .  .  Yet  he  had  the  bigger  gun  and  the 
higher  speed.  Signalled  back,  'Not  to-day,  thank 


146  THE  LONG  TRICK 

you!'  and  legged  it  inside  gun-range  of  the  forts. 
Phew!  That  made  us  pretty  hot,  didn't  it,  Sub?'7 

"Nerves,"  said  the  Lieutenant.     "Their  nerves 

are  just  putrid.    There  was  another  night  once 

he  talked  quickly  between  spoonfuls  of  rice  pudding. 
"In  a  fog  ...  we  were  making  a  lightship  off  the 
Dutch  coast  to  verify  our  position.  .  .  .  Approached 
submerged,  steering  by  sound  of  their  submarine  bell, 
and  then  came  to  the  surface  to  get  a  bearing.  There 
must  have  been  half  a  dozen  Fritzes  round  that  light, 
all  lost  and  fluttering  like  moths  round  a  candle.  We 
bagged  one,  sitting,  and  blew  him  to  hell.  .  .  .  The 
rest  plopped  under  like  a  lot  of  seals  and  simply 
scattered.  Fight?  'Not  to-day,  thank  you.'  They're 
only  good  for  tackling  unarmed  merchantmen  and 
leaving  women  in  open  boats."  The  speaker  wiped 
his  mouth  with  his  napkin.  "By  God!  I  wouldn't 
be  a  Hun  when  the  war's  over.  They're  having  a 
nice  little  drop  of  leave  now  to  what  they'll  get  if  they 
ever  dare  put  their  noses  outside  their  own  filthy 
country." 

"Amen,"  said  Sir  William. 

The  Captain  of  the  boat  rose  from  his  seat,  glanc- 
ing at  his  watch.  "Now  then,"  he  said  to  the 
Scientist,  "Come  to  the  periscope  and  let's  have  a 
look  round.  Gedge  ought  to  be  over  the  horizon  by 


now." 


The  men  moved  quietly  to  their  stations  and  the 
tanks  were  blown.  Slowly  the  gauge  needles  crept 
back  on  their  appointed  paths.  The  Submarine  Com- 


CARRYING  ON  147 

mander  motioned  his  guest  to  the  periscope  and  gave 
him  a  glimpse  of  flying  spray  and  sun-kissed  wave 
tops.  A  mile  or  so  away  lay  the  group  of  islands 
they  had  seen  before  lunch,  and  close  inshore  a  mass 
of  floating  debris  bobbed  among  the  waves. 

"Baskets,  I  think — jettison  of  sorts.  Fm  going 
to  get  amongst  it  and  go  down  with  the  tide,  keeping 
the  periscope  hidden:  it's  an  old  dodge.  You  can 
just  see  the  smoke  of  Gedge's  bus  coming  over  the 
horizon.  We'll  give  him  a  little  game  of  Peep-bo !" 

Sir  William  drew  his  watch  from  his  pocket  and 
walked  over  to  the  compass.  "In  four  minutes' 
time,"  he  said,  "I  shall  start  making  observations: 
according  to  our  arrangements  Gedge  should  start 
the  experiment  then." 

"That's  right,"  said  the  Lieutenant-Commander 
with  his  eyes  pressed  against  the  eye-piece  of  the 
periscope.  uOh,  good!  It's  bales  of  hay  floating, 
not  baskets.  Better  still:  no  chance  of  damaging 
the  periscope.  There's  Gedge ! 

"Ha,!  Ha!  Ha!  Hee!   Hee!  Hee! 
I  see  you,  but  you  can't  see  me !" 

He  slewed  the  periscope  through  a  few  points  and 
back  to  the  original  position.  "Hullo !"  he  said 
presently,  "what's  he  up  to?  He's  altered  course. 
.  .  .  Thinks  he  sees  something,  I  suppose.  You're 
wrong,  my  lad.  We're  not  in  that  direction." 

The  minutes  passed  in  silence.     Forward  in  the 


148  THE  LONG  TRICK 

bow  compartment  a  man  was  softly  whistling  a  tune 
to  himself.  The  feet  of  the  figure  at  the  periscope 
moved  with  a  shuffle  on  the  steel  plating. 

"How's  the  time?"  he  asked  presently. 

"He  ought  to  have  started  the  apparatus,"  said 
Sir  William,  standing,  watch  in  hand,  by  the  compass. 
"What's  he  doing?" 

"Legging  it  to  the  Northward  at  the  rate  of  knots 
— eight  points  off  his  course,  if  he  thinks  he's  going 
to  get  anywhere  near  us  .  .  .  Ah !  Now  he's  coming 
round.  .  .  .  Humph!  You're  getting  warm,  my 
lad!"  Another  prolonged  silence  followed,  and  sud- 
denly the  Lieutenant-Commander  spoke  again. 

"Sub,"  he  said  in  a  curiously  restrained  tone, 
"just  come  here  a  minute." 

The  Lieutenant  moved  obediently  to  his  side  and 
applied  his  eye  to  the  periscope. 

"Well?"  said  the  Captain  after  a  pause.  "Well, 
Sister  Anne?" 

The  Lieutenant  turned  his  head  swiftly  for  an 
instant  and  looked  at  his  Commanding  Officer.  "Have 
we  got  any  boat  out  on  this  patrol  to-day?"  he  asked. 

The  other  shook  his  head.  "Not  within  thirty 
miles  of  this.  'Sides,  he  wouldn't  come  through  here 
submerged,  with  only  his  periscope  dipping." 

"It's  a  Fritz,  then,"  said  the  Lieutenant,  an  omi- 
nous calm  in  his  voice.  He  stepped  aside  and  relin- 
guished  the  eye -piece. 

"It  is,"  said  the  other.  "It's  a  naughty,  disobe- 
dient Fritz.  He's  coming  through  in  broad  daylight, 


CARRYING  ON  149 

which  he's  been  told  not  to  do.  He  hasn't  seen  us 
yet — he's  watching  old  man  Gedge.  Gedge  thinks 
it's  us  and  is  pretending  he  hasn't  seen  him.  .  .  . 
Lord!  It's  like  a  French  musical  comedy." 

Sir  William  put  his  watch  back  in  his  pocket  and 
stood  looking  from  one  speaker  to  the  other.  Fi- 
nally he  removed  his  eye-glass  and  began  to  polish 
it  with  scrupulous  care. 

"Do  I  understand — — "  he  began. 

The  voice  of  the  Lieutenant-Commander  at  the 
periscope  cut  him  short.  "Stand  by  the  tubes!"  he 
shouted. 

There  was  a  swift  bustle  of  men's  footsteps  down 
the  electric-lit  perspective  of  glistening  ma- 
chinery. 

"Fritz  must  be  in  a  tearing  hurry  to  get  home," 
commented  the  First  Lieutenant.  "P'raps  they've  all 
got  plague  or  running  short  of  food  ...  or  just 
tired  of  life?" 

"P'raps,"  conceded  the  Lieutenant-Commander. 
"Anyhow,  that's  as  may  be.  ...  The  beam  torpedo 
tube  will  just  bear  nicely  in  a  minute."  The  white 
teeth  beneath  the  rubber  eye-piece  of  the  periscope 
showed  for  an  instant  in  a  broad  grin.  "Won't  old 
man  Gedge  jump !" 

"Starboard  beam  tube  ready!" 

Sir  William  replaced  his  eye-glass.  A  sudden 
bead  of  perspiration  ran  down  and  vanished  into  his 
left  eyebrow. 

"The  Lord,"  said  the  Lieutenant  in  a  low  voice, 


150  THE  LONG  TRICK 

"has  placed  the  enemy  upon  our  lee  bow,  Sir  Will- 


iam." 


"Has  he?"  said  Sir  William  dryly.  "Then  I 
hope  He'll  have  mercy  on  their  souls." 

The  motionless  figure  at  the  periscope  gave  a 
couple  of  low-voiced  orders,  and  in  the  ensuing  silence 
Sir  William  felt  the  artery  in  his  throat  quicken  and 
beat  like  a  piston.  Then — 

"Fire!" 

The  boat  rolled  to  port,  and  all  her  framework 
shook  like  the  body  of  a  man  shaken  by  a  sudden 
sob.  Back  she  came  to  her  original  trim,  and  the 
Lieutenant,  standing  by  the  beam  tube,  raised  his 
wrist  watch  and  studied  it  intently.  The  seconds 
passed,  throbbing,  intolerable,  and  merged  into 
Eternity.  A  sudden  concussion  seemed  to  strike  the 
boat  from  bow  to  stern,  and  as  she  steadied  the 
motionless  figures,  standing  expressionless  at  their 
stations,  suddenly  sprang  into  life  and  action. 

There  was  the  metallic  sound  of  metal  striking 
metal  as  the  hatchway  opened,  a  rush  of  cool,  sweet 
air,  and  the  Scientist  found  himself  beside  the  two 
officers,  without  the  slightest  recollection  of  how  he 
got  there,  standing  in  the  wind  and  sunlight  on  the 
streaming  platform  of  the  conning-tower.  The  boat 
was  heading  with  the  waves  tumbling  away  on  either 
side  of  them  in  the  direction  of  a  cloud  of  grey 
smoke  that  still  hung  over  the  water,  slowly  dissolv- 
ing in  the  wind.  As  they  approached  a  dark  patch 
of  oil  spread  outwards  from  a  miniature  maelstrom 


CARRYING  ON  151 

where  vast  bubbles  heaved  themselves  up  and  broke ; 
the  air  was  sickly  with  the  smell  of  benzoline,  and 
mingled  with  it  were  the  acrid  fumes  of  gas  and 
burnt  clothing.  A  dark  scum  gathered  in  widening 
circles,  with  here  and  there  the  white  belly  of  a  dead 
fish  catching  the  sun :  a  few  scraps  of  wreckage  went 
by,  but  no  sign  of  a  man  or  what  had  once  been  a 
man. 

"Pretty  shot,"  said  the  First  Lieutenant  approv- 
ingly, and  leaned  over  the  rail  to  superintend  the 
dropping  of  a  sinker  and  buoy.  The  Commanding 
Officer  said  nothing.  Beneath  the  tan  his  face  was 
white,  and  his  hand,  as  he  raised  his  glasses  to  sweep 
the  horizon,  trembled  slightly. 

The  Yeoman  of  Signals  turned  to  Sir  William 
and  jerked  his  thumb  at  the  water.  "Eh!"  he  said 
soberly,  "yon  had  a  quick  call!" 

"I  ask  for  no  other  when  my  hour  strikes,"  re- 
plied the  Scientist. 

"Maybe  juist  yeer  hands  are  clean,"  said  the  Yeo- 
man, and  turned  to  level  his  telescope  at  the  trawler 
which  was  rapidly  approaching  with  a  cloud  of  smoke 
reeling  from  her  funnel  and  the  waves  breaking  white 
across  her  high  bows. 

"Here  comes  Gedge,"  observed  the  Lieutenant- 
Commander,  speaking  for  the  first  time,  "foaming  at 
the  mouth  and  suffering  from  the  reaction  of  fright. 
Hark!  He's  started  talking.  ..." 

Amid  the  cluster  of  figures  in  the  trawler's  bow 
stood  a  big  man  with  a  megaphone  to  his  mouth. 


152  THE  LONG  TRICK 

The  wind  carried  scraps  of  sentences  across  the  water. 

"...  Darned  bunch  of  tricks  aft.  .  .  .  How 
was  I  to  know.  .  .  .  Scared  blue  .  .  .  torpedo  .  .  . 
prisoners.  .  .  .  Blamed  inventors.  ..." 

"Translate,"  said  Sir  William.  The  Lieutenant- 
Commander  coughed  apologetically.  "He's  peevish," 
he  said.  "Thought  it  was  us  blowing  up  at  first. 
Wants  to  know  why  we  wasted  a  torpedo :  thinks  he 
could  have  captured  her  and  taken  the  crew  prisoners 
if  we'd  left  it  to  him." 

"Silly  ass!"  from  the  First  Lieutenant.  "How 
could  we  let  him  know  he  was  playing  round  with  a 
Fritz?  If  we'd  shown  ourselves  Fritz  would  have 
torpedoed  us!" 

"I  appreciate  the  compliment,"  began  Sir  William, 
"that  he  implies  to  my  device,  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
I  hardly  think  the  apparatus  is  sufficiently  perfect 
yet " 

The  Lieutenant-Commander  laughed  rather  bru- 
tally. "He  isn't  paying  compliments.  He  went  on 
to  say  he  didn't  want  the  assistance  of — er — new 
inventions  to  bag  a  Fritz  once  he's  sighted  him." 

The  First  Lieutenant  came  quickly  to  the  rescue. 
"Of  course,"  he  said,  "that's  all  rot.  We're  only  too 
grateful  to — to  Science  for  trying  to  invent  a  new 
gadget.  .  .  .  Only,  you  see,  sir,  in  the  meanwhile, 
until  you  hit  on  it  we  feel  we  aren't  doing  so  badly — 
er — just  carrying  on." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

UARMA  VlRUMQUE    .     .    ..." 

THE  Flagship's  Wardroom  and  the  smoking-room 
beyond  were  packed  to  suffocation  by  a  dense 
throng  of  officers.  The  Flagship  was  uAt  Home" 
to  the  Fleet  that  afternoon  on  the  occasion  of  the 
Junior  Officers'  Boxing  Tournament  which  was  being 
held  onboard,  and  a  lull  in  the  proceedings  had  been 
the  signal  for  a  general  move  below  in  quest  for  tea. 
Hosts  and  guests  were  gathered  round  the  long 
table,  standing  in  pairs  or  small  groups,  and  talking 
with  extraordinary  gusto.  Opportunities  of  inter- 
course between  ships  are  rare  in  War-time.  Save  for 
an  occasional  visitor  to  lunch  or  dinner,  or  a  hap- 
hazard meeting  on  the  golf-links,  each  ship  or  flotilla 
dwelt  a  little  community  apart.  On  occasions  such 
as  this,  however,  the  vast  Fleet  came  together ;  Light 
Cruiser  met  Destroyer  with  a  sidelong  jerk  of  the 
head  and  a  "Hullo,  Old  Thing  ..."  that  spanned 
the  years  at  a  single  leap ;  Submarine  laughed  across 
the  room  at  Seaplane-carrier;  Mine-sweeper  and 
Mine-layer  shared  a  plate  of  sandwiches  with  a 
couple  of  Sloops  and  discussed  the  boxing;  but  they 
were  no  more  than  a  leavening  amid  the  throng  of 
"big-ship  folk"  who  reckoned  horse-power  by  the 

153 


154  THE  LONG  TRICK 

half  hundred  thousand  and  spoke  of  guns  in  terms  of 
the  15-inch. 

Almost  every  rank  of  Naval  officer  was  repre- 
sented, from  Commander  to  Sub-Lieutenant  and  their 
equivalent  ranks  in  other  branches;  yet  the  vast 
majority  shared  a  curious  resemblance.  It  was  elu- 
sive and  quite  apart  from  the  affinity  of  race.  The 
high  physical  standard  demanded  of  each  on  entry, 
the  athletic  training  of  their  early  years,  the  stern 
rigour  of  life  afloat,  perhaps  accounted  for  it.  But 
in  many  of  the  tanned,  clean-shaven  faces  there  was 
something  more  definite  than  that;  a  strain  that 
might  have  been  transmitted  by  the  symbolic  Mother 
of  the  Race,  clear-eyed  and  straight  of  limb,  who  still 
sits  and  watches  beneath  stern  calm  brows  the  heri- 
tage of  her  sons. 

A  few  there  were  among  the  gathering  with 
more  than  youth's  unwisdom  marring  mouth  and 
brow;  eyes  tired  with  seeing  over-much  looked  out 
here  and  there  from  the  face  of  Youth.  Yet  amid 
the  wholesome,  virile  cheerfulness  of  that  assembly 
they  were  but  transient  impressions,  lingering  on  the 
mind  of  an  observer  with  no  more  permanency  than 
the  shadows  of  leaves  flickering  on  a  sunny  wall. 

A  Lieutenant-Commander,  on  whose  left  breast 
the  gaudy  ribbons  of  Russian  decorations  hinted  at 
the  nature  of  his  employment  during  the  War,  was 
talking  animatedly  to  a  Lieutenant  with  the  eagle  of 
the  Navy-that-Flies  above  the  distinction  lace  on  his 
cuff.  A  grave-faced  Navigating  Commander,  scent- 


"ARMA  VIRUMQUE   ..."         155 

ing  the  possibility  of  an  interesting  discussion  between 
these  exponents  of  submarine  and  aerial  warfare, 
pushed  his  way  towards  them  through  the  crush. 

".  .  .1  remember  her  quite  well,"  the  Flying 
Man  was  saying  as  he  stirred  his  tea.  "Nice  little 
thing  .  .  .  married,  is  she?  Well,  well  ..." 

"You're  a  nice  pair,"  said  the  Commander,  smil- 
ing. "I  came  over  here  expecting  to  hear  you  both 
discussing  the  bursting  area  of  a  submarine  bomb, 
and  find  you're  talking  scandal." 

"It's  a  year  old  at  that,"  said  the  be-ribboned 
one,  with  a  laugh.  "I've  just  come  back  from  the 
White  Sea,  but  I  seem  to  know  more  about  what 
Timmin's  lady  friends  have  been  doing  in  the  mean- 
while than  he  does  himself!" 

He  bit  into  a  sardine  sandwich  with  white,  even 
teeth  and  laughed  again.  A  great  hum  of  men's 
voices  filled  the  room.  Scraps  of  home  gossip  ex- 
changed between  more  intimate  friends,  and  com- 
ments on  the  afternoon's  boxing  mingled  with  tag- 
ends  of  narratives  from  distant  seas  and  far-off 
shores.  It  was  nearly  all  war,  of  course,  Naval  war 
in  some  guise  or  other,  and  it  covered  most  of  the 
navigable  globe. 

A  general  conversation  of  this  nature  cannot  be 
satisfactorily  reproduced.  A  person  slowly  elbowing 
his  way  from  the  big  tea-urns  at  one  end  of  the 
mess  to  the  smoking-room  at  the  other,  would,  in 
his  passage,  cut  off,  as  it  were,  segments  of  talk  such 
as  the  following: 


156  THE  LONG  TRICK 

".  .  .  Ripping  little  boxer,  isn't  he?  I  had  his 
term  at  Osborne  College,  but  he's  learnt  a  good  deal 
since  then.  ." 


".  .  .Jess?  Poor  little  dog :  she  was  killed  by  a 
4-inch  shell  in  that  Dogger  Bank  show.  I've  got  an 
Aberdeen  terrier  now." 


".  .  .  Bit  of  a  change  up  here,  isn't  it,  after 
being  under  double  awnings  for  so  long?  But  the 
Persian  Gulf  was  getting  father  boring  .  .  .  were 

you  invalided  too?" 

***** 

".  .  .Not  they!  They  won't  come  out — unless 
their  bloomin'  Emperor  sends  them  out  to  commit 
a  sort  of  hari-kiri  at  the  end  of  the  war.  .  .  .  That's 
what  makes  it  so  boring  up  here.  ..." 

***** 

"As  a  matter  of  fact  we  caught  the  Turk  who 
laid  most  of  the  mines  in  the  Tigris.  He  conned  us 
up  the  river — we  put  him  in  a  basket  and  slung  him 
on  the  bowsprit:  just  in  case  he  got  careless, 
what?  . 


"...  Beer?  My  dear  old  lad,  the  Japs  had 
scoffed  all  the  beer  in  Kiao-Chau  before  I  got  into 
the  main  street.  ." 


"ARMA  VIRUMQUE  .   .   ."          157 

".  .  .1  had  a  Midshipman  up  with  me  as 
observer — aged  16  and  4  months  precisely.  .  .  . 
Those  machines  scared  the  Arabs  badly.  .  .  . " 


".  .  .  Just  a  sharpened  bayonet.  You  slung 
it  round  your  neck  when  you  were  swimming.  .  .  . 
Only  had  to  use  it  once  .  .  .  nasty  sticky  job.  No 
joke  either,  crawling  about  naked  on  your  belly  in 
the  dark. 


"...  We  had  a  fellow  chipping  the  ice  away 
from  the  conning-tower  hatch  all  the  time  we  were 
on  the  surface,  'case  we  had  to  close  down  quick. 
I  tell  you,  it  was  Hell,  that  cold!  ..." 

***** 

".  .  .  Five  seconds  after  we  had  fired  our  tor- 
pedo a  shell  hit  the  tube  and  blew  it  to  smithereens. 
A  near  thing,  I  give  you  my  word.  ..." 

***** 

A  Lieutenant-Commander  appeared  at  the  door- 
way from  the  smoking-room. 

"There  will  be  an  exhibition  bout  next,"  he 
shouted,  "and  then  the  final  of  the  Lightweights!" 
A  general  move  ensued  on  to  the  upper  deck. 

The  raised  ring  was  in  amidships  before  the  after 
superstructure.  The  officers  occupied  tiers  of  chairs 
round  three  sides  of  the  platform.  The  Admirals 
and  their  staffs  in  front,  and  the  Post-captains  of 


158  THE  LONG  TRICK 

the  ships  that  had  entered  competitors,  just  behind. 
On  the  forward  side,  extending  the  whole  breadth  of 
the  ship,  was  the  dense  array  of  the  ship's  company. 
The  majority  were  in  tiers  on  planks,  but  a  number 
had  found  their  way  to  other  points  of  vantage,  and 
were  clustered  about  the  funnel  casings  and  turrets 
and  even  astride  the  great  guns  themselves.  A  mur- 
mur of  men's  voices,  punctuated  by  the  splutter  of 
matches  as  hundreds  of  pipes  were  lit  and  relit,  went 
up  on  all  sides.  The  judges  were  taking  their  seats 
at  the  little  tables  on  either  side  of  the  ring,  and 
the  referee,  an  athletic-looking  Commander,  was 
leaning  over  from  his  chair  talking  to  the  Chaplain 
who  was  acting  as  time-keeper. 

The  Physical  Training  Officer  of  the  Flagship 
stepped  into  the  empty  ring  and  raised  his  hand  for 
silence.  The  hum  of  voices  died  away  instantly,  and 
in  the  stillness  the  thin,  querulous  crying  of  the  gulls 
somewhere  astern  alone  was  audible. 

4 'Lieutenant  Adams,  Welter-weight  Champion  of 
the  Navy,  and  Seaman  Hands,  ex-Middle-weight 
Champion  of  England,  have  kindly  consented  to  give 
an  exhibition  of  sparring,"  he  proclaimed,  and  with- 
drew. 

During  the  applause  that  greeted  the  announce- 
ment a  youthful  figure,  clad  in  a  white  singlet  and 
football  shorts,  with  a  sweater  thrown  over  his  shoul- 
ders, ducked  under  the  ropes  and  walked  rather  shyly 
to  his  corner  of  the  ring.  His  appearance  was  the 
signal  for  a  vociferous  outburst  of  applause.  He 


"ARMA  VIRUMQUE  .    .   ."          159 

sat  down,  holding  the  sweater  about  his  shoulders 
with  his  gloved  hands,  and  thoughtfully  rubbing  the 
sole  of  his  left  boot  in  the  powdered  resin. 

The  clapping  suddenly  redoubled,  and  a  broad, 
bull-necked  man  of  about  forty  vaulted  lightly  into 
the  ring  and  took  his  place  in  the  opposite  corner. 
He  was  stripped  to  the  waist;  his  jaws  moved  mechan- 
ically about  a  piece  of  chewing  gum,  and  an  expres- 
sion of  benign  good-humour  and  enjoyment  lit  his 
battered,  kindly  countenance. 

It  was  not  until  the  gong  sounded  and  the  two 
men  rose  from  their  chairs  that  the  contrast  between 
the  toughened  ex-professional  and  the  lithe,  graceful 
amateur  brought  forth  a  little  murmur  of  delight 
from  the  vast  audience. 

In  the  sordid  surroundings  of  the  prize  ring  there 
might  have  been  a  suggestion  of  brutality  about  the 
older  man.  The  great  hairy  chest,  the  knotted  arms 
covered  with  barbaric  tattooing,  the  low-crowned 
skull  and  projecting  lower  jaw  gave  him  an  aspect 
of  almost  savage,  remorseless  strength  softened  only 
by  the  gentleness  of  his  eyes.  He  moved  as  lightly 
as  a  cat,  and  from  shoulder  to  thigh  the  muscles 
stirred  obedient  to  every  motion. 

The  Lieutenant  was  perhaps  fifteen  years  the 
junior.  The  playing  fields  or  racquet-courts  of  any 
university  would  recognise  his  type  as  nothing  out  of 
the  common.  Deep-chested,  lean-flanked,  perfectly 
proportioned,  and  perhaps  a  shade  "fine-drawn" — 
England  and  America  carelessly  produce  and  main- 


160  THE  LONG  TRICK 

tain  the  standard  of  this  perfection  of  physical  beauty 
as  no  other  white  race  can. 

The  two  men  met  in  the  centre  of  the  ring,  and 
as  they  shook  hands  the  old  pugilist  grinned  almost 
affectionately.  The  lack  of  several  front  teeth  inci- 
dental to  his  late  profession  was  momentarily  ap- 
parent, and  an  enthralled  Ordinary  Seaman,  perched 
insecurely  on  the  lower  funnel  casing,  drew  his  breath 
in  relief. 

"  'E  won't  'urt  'im,"  he  said  in  a  whisper,  as  if 
to  reassure  himself. 

"Course  'e  won't!"  replied  a  companion,  expell- 
ing a  cloud  of  tobacco  smoke  between  his  lips.  i  'S 
only  a  bit  o'  skylarkin'  .  .  .  Gawd!"  he  added  in 
awed  tones.  "That  one  'ud  kill  a  donkey  if  'e  started 
'ittin'." 

The  two  boxers  had  slipped  into  their  habitual 
poses  and  were  quietly  moving  round  each  other.  The 
graceful  activity  of  the  amateur  was  somewhat  char- 
acteristic of  his  school,  while  the  ex-professional  con- 
tented himself  with  almost  imperceptible  movements 
of  his  feet,  watching  with  a  nonchalant  yet  wary 
caution  for  the  coming  attack.  With  the  suddenness 
of  a  flash  the  Lieutenant  led  with  his  left  and  was 
back  out  of  harm's  way  again. 

True  and  quick  was  the  blow,  but  the  veteran's 
defence  was  even  quicker.  Without  raising  either 
glove  he  appeared  to  have  swayed  backwards  from 
the  hips.  His  adversary's  glove  should  have  landed 
full  in  his  face;  but  so  perfectly  was  his  defence 


"ARMA  VIRUMQUE  .    .   ."          161 

timed  that  it  just  reached  him  and  no  more.  The 
battered  face,  with  its  amiable,  reassuring  smile  and 
slowly  moving  jaws,  had  not  winked  an  eye- 
lid. 

Then  for  three  short  rounds  there  followed  a 
completely  enthralling  display.  On  one  side  was 
perfectly  trained  orthodox,  amateur  boxing.  On  the 
other  every  clean  trick  and  subterfuge  of  irreproach- 
able ring-craft.  Timing,  footwork,  feints,  guarding 
and  ducking;  each  subtlety  of  the  art  of  defence  was 
demonstrated  in  turn. 

In  the  last  few  seconds  of  the  final  round,  how- 
ever, a  little  out  of  breath  with  his  defensive  display, 
the  older  man  changed  his  tactics.  With  lowered 
head  and  ferocious  face  he  advanced,  a  whirling  bulk 
of  might  and  action,  upon  the  amateur.  Tap — tap — 
tap !  Left — right,  over  and  under,  through  the  guard 
and  round  the  guard  of  the  outfought  youngster  the 
unclenched  gloves  totted  up  a  score  of  points.  There 
was  a  careful  restraint  behind  each  blow,  yet,  when 
the  gong  sounded  and  they  smilingly  shook  hands 
amid  tumults  of  enthusiasm,  a  thin  red  stream  was 
trickling  from  the  right  eyebrow  of  the  amateur 
champion.  .  .  . 

As  they  left  the  ring  two  boyish  forms  slipped 
through  the  ropes  and  made  their  way  to  their  re- 
spective corners.  They  both  wore  the  orthodox  white 
singlet  and  blue  shorts,  and  round  each  waist  was 
twisted  the  distinguishing  coloured  sash,  one  red  and 
the  other  green.  They  sat  down  with  their  gloved 


1 62  THE  LONG  TRICK 

hands  resting  on  their  thin  knees  and  gravely  surveyed 
the  sea  of  expectant  faces.  Both  bore  traces  of  pre- 
vious conflicts  on  their  features,  and  their  united  ages 
aggregated  something  just  over  thirty. 

The  Physical  Training  Officer  again  advanced  to 
the  ropes.  "Final  of  the  Junior  Officers'  Light- 
weights !"  he  announced.  "Midshipman  Harcourt  on 
the  left — green;  Midshipman  Mordaunt  on  my  right 
•• — red,"  and  added  the  name  of  their  ship.  He  looked 
from  one  to  the  other  interrogatively,  and  they 
nodded  in  turn.  Stepping  back  he  resumed  his  seat 
amid  a  tense  silence. 

"Seconds  out  of  the  ring!" 

Then  the  gong  rang,  and  the  two  wiry  figures 
rose  to  their  feet  and  stepped  briskly  to  meet  each 
other.  The  wearer  of  the  green  colours  was  smiling, 
but  his  slim  adversary  looked  grave  and  rather  pale 
with  compressed  lips. 

Their  gloves  met  for  an  instant,  and  the  fight 
started.  There  was  little  or  no  preliminary  sparring. 
Each  knew  the  other's  tactics  by  heart.  It  was  just 
grim,  dogged,  ding-dong  fighting.  In  height  and 
weight  they  were  singularly  evenly  matched,  but  Har- 
court soon  gave  evidences  of  being  unquestionably 
the  better  boxer.  He  boxed  coolly  and  scientifically, 
but  what  his  opponent  lacked  in  style  he  made  up 
in  determination.  Twice  his  furious  attacks  drove 
Harcourt  to  the  ropes,  and  twice  the  latter  extri- 
cated himself  nimbly  and  good-humou redly.  Between 
the  thud  of  gloves  and  the  patter  of  their  feet  on 


"ARMA  VIRUMQUE  .    .   ."          163 

the  canvas-covered  boards  their  breathing  was  audible 
in  the  tense  hush  of  the  ring-side. 

Ding!  went  the  gong,  and  the  first  round  was 
over.  They  walked  to  their  corners  amid  a  tempest 
of  appreciative  applause,  and  were  instantly  pounced 
upon  by  their  anxious  seconds. 

In  one  of  the  chairs  just  below  the  ring,  Thoro- 
good  removed  his  pipe  from  his  mouth  and  turned 
his  head  to  speak  to  Mouldy  Jakes,  who  sat  beside 
him. 

"Good  fight,  eh?"  he  said,  smiling.  "Harcourt 
ought  to  win,  of  course,  but  Mordaunt's  fighting 
like  a  young  tiger.  He's  no  boxer,  either.  I'm 
bothered  if  I  know  how  he  got  into  the  finals." 

"Guts !"  said  the  other.  "Sheer  guts !  He  won't 
last,  though.  Harcourt  '11  start  piling  up  the  points 
in  the  next  round." 

But  when  the  second  round  started,  Mordaunt 
developed  unexpected  skill  in  defence.  Harcourt  led 
off  with  an  offensive,  but  his  opponent  dodged  and 
ducked  and  guarded  until  the  first  fury  of  the  on- 
slaught abated,  and  then  a  savage  bout  of  in-fighting 
quickly  equalised  matters,  until  as  the  end  of  the 
round  approached  disaster  very  nearly  overtook  the 
red  colours.  Mordaunt  swung  rather  wildly  with  his 
right  and  missed.  Harcourt's  watchful  left  landed 
on  the  side  of  his  opponent's  head  as  he  lost  his 
equilibrium,  and  Billy  Mordaunt  went  down  with  a 
thud. 

He  was  on  his  feet  again  the  next  instant,  his 


164  THE  LONG  TRICK 

eyes  fairly  alight  with  battle,  and  his  lip  curled  back 
savagely.  In  a  whirlwind  of  smashing  blows  he 
drove  Harcourt  to  the  ropes  again,  until  a  straight 
left  between  the  eyes  sobered  him. 

Ding!  went  the  gong  again,  and  again  the  ap- 
plause burst  out.  The  seconds  fell  upon  their  men 
with  furious  energy.  The  water  in  the  basins  was 
assuming  a  pinkish  tinge,  and  they  sponged  and  mas- 
saged and  flapped  their  towels  as  if  striving  to  impart 
something  of  their  own  vigour  to  their  tired  prin- 
cipals. The  two  combatants,  breathing  hard,  were 
leaning  back  with  outstretched  arms  and  legs,  every 
muscle  in  their  resting  bodies  relaxed. 

"Harcourt  ought  to  win,  you  know,"  said  Thoro- 
good  again.  "He's  just  as  fit  and  a  better  boxer. 
But  he  seems  to  be  tiring.  .  .  .  He  had  a  pretty 
tough  time  in  the  heats,  I  fancy." 

"Seconds  out  of  the  ring!  Last  round!"  came 
the  Chaplain's  voice.  Then  the  gong  brought  them 
to  their  feet. 

They  shook  hands  unsmiling,  and  began  to  circle 
cautiously,  sparring  for  an  opening.  Then  Harcourt 
led.  It  was  a  stinging  blow  and  it  landed  fair 
enough.  Billy  took  it,  and  several  more;  for  a  mo- 
ment it  looked  as  if  he  had  shot  his  bolt.  Then  he 
seemed  suddenly  to  gather  all  his  tiring  strength.  He 
feinted  and  hit  lightly  with  his  left.  Harcourt 
blocked  it,  then  unexpectedly  lowered  his  guard;  a 
little  mocking  smile  flitted  over  his  blood-smeared 
face.  Billy's  right  came  in  with  every  ounce  of 


"ARMA  VIRUMQUE  „  .   ."          165 

muscle  and  sinew  in  his  body  to  back  the  jolt,  and 
it  landed  fair  on  the  point  of  that  flaunting  chin  so 
temptingly  offered. 

It  seemed  to  Billy  that  Harcourt  disappeared 
into  a  mist.  There  was  a  thud  and  a  great  roar  of 
voices  and  the  sounds  of  clapping. 

"Stand  back!"  said  a  warning  voice  at  the  ring- 
side, and  somewhere,  apparently  in  the  distance,  an- 
other voice  was  counting  the  deliberate  seconds: 

".  .,,Five!    Six!    Seven!" 

The  angry  mist  cleared  away  and  revealed  Har- 
court sprawling  on  the  ground.  He  was  leaning  over 
on  both  hands,  striving  gallantly  to  rise. 

"...  Eight!   Nine!" 

The  white  figure  with  the  green  sash  was  on 
hands  and  knees,  swaying 

The  gong  rang.     Down  and  out! 

The  referee  glanced  from  one  judge  to  the  other 
and  raised  a  little  red  flag  from  the  table. 

"Red  wins!"  he  shouted. 

Unconscious  of  the  deafening  applause  Billy 
bent  down  and  slipped  an  arm  under  his  friend's 
shoulders.  All  the  savage  fighting  blood  in  him  had 
suddenly  cooled,  and  there  was  only  pity  and  love  for 
Harcourt  in  his  heart  as  he  helped  him  to  his  feet. 

Harcourt's  seconds  had  rushed  into  the  ring  as 
the  gong  rang,  and  they  now  supported  him  to  his 
corner.  At  his  feeble  request  one  unlaced  the  glove 
from  his  right  hand,  which  he  extended  to  his  late 
adversary  with  a  wan  smile. 


1 66  THE  LONG  TRICK 

"That  was  a  good  'un,  Billy,"  he  said  faintly. 
"My — head's — still  singing  .  .  .  like  a  top !  And — 

I  taught  it  to  you !  .    .    . " 

***** 

The  distribution  of  prizes  to  the  winners  of  the 
different  weights  followed,  and  then  the  great  gather- 
ing broke  up.  The  Admirals  departed  with  their 
staffs  in  their  respective  barges,  the  Captains  in  their 
galleys,  Wardroom  and  Gunroom  officers  in  the 
picket-boats.  Figures  paced  up  and  down  the  quar- 
terdeck talking  together  in  pairs;  farewells  sounded 
at  the  gangways,  and  the  hoot  of  the  steamboats' 
syrens  astern  mingled  with  the  ceaseless  calling  of 
the  gulls  overhead. 

Harcourt  and  Mordaunt,  descending  the  accom- 
modation ladder  in  the  rear  of  the  remainder  of  their 
party,  were  greeted  by  Morton,  at  the  wheel  of  the 
picket-boat,  with  a  broad  grin. 

"Come  on,"  he  ejaculated  impatiently.  "Hop 
in !  We've  got  to  get  back  and  be  hoisted  in.  Who 
won  the  Light-Weights  by  the  same  token?" 

"Billy  did,"  replied  Harcourt.  He  settled  himself 
comfortably  on  top  of  the  cabin  of  the  picket-boat 
and  pulled  up  the  collar  of  his  great-coat  about  his 
face. 

Morton  jerked  the  engine-room  telegraph  and 
the  boat  moved  off. 

"Why  are  we  in  such  a  hurry?"  queried  Harcourt 
"Are  we  going  out?" 

The  boyish  figure  at  the  helm  glanced  aft  to  see 


"ARMA  VIRUMQUE  ..."          167 

his  stern  was  clear,  and  put  the  wheel  over,  heading 
the  boat  in  the  direction  of  their  ship. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "At  least  a  signal  has  just  come 
through  ordering  us  to  raise  steam  for  working 
cables  at  seven  p.m." 

Lettigne,  perched  beside  Mordaunt  on  the  other 
side  of  the  cabin-top,  leaned  across.  The  crowded 
excitements  of  the  afternoon  had  lapsed  into  oblivion. 

"D'you  mean  the  whole  Fleet,  or  only  just  us?" 
he  asked. 

"The  whole  Fleet,"  replied  Morton,  staring 
ahead  between  the  twin  funnels  of  his  boat.  "I  sup- 
pose it's  the  usual  weary  stunt;  go  out  and  steam 
about  trailing  the  tail  of  our  coat  for  a  couple  of 
days,  and  then  come  back  again."  The  speaker 
gripped  the  spokes  of  the  wheel  almost  savagely. 
"Lord!"  he  added,  "if  only  they'd  come  out.  ..." 

Mordaunt  fingered  his  nose  gingerly.  "They  do 
come  out  occasionally,  I  believe.  You'd  think  their 
women  'ud  boo  them  out.  .  .  .  They  sneak  about 
behind  their  minefields  and  do  exercises,  and  they 
cover  their  Battle-cruisers  when  they  nip  out  for  a 
tip-and-run  bombardment  of  one  of  our  watering- 
places.  But  we'll  never  catch  'em,  although  we  can 
stop  them  from  being  of  the  smallest  use  to  Germany 
by  just  being  where  we  are." 

"We  could  catch  them  if  they  didn't  know  we 
were  coming  South,"  said  another  Midshipman 
perched  beside  Mordaunt  with  his  knees  under  his 
chin. 


1 68  THE  LONG  TRICK 

"But  they  always  do  know,"  said  Harcourt  over 
his  shoulder.  "Their  Zepps  always  see  us  coming  and 
give  them  the  tip  to  nip  off  home!" 

"Fog  ..."  said  Mordaunt  musingly. 

"Yes,"  said  another  who  had  not  hitherto  spoken. 
"That  'ud  do  it  all  right.  But  then  you  couldn't  see 
to  hit  'em.  'Sides,  you  can't  count  on  a  fog  coming 
on  just  when  you  want  it." 

"Well,"  said  Morton,  with  the  air  of  one  who 
was  wearied  by  profitless  discussion.  "Fog  or  no  fog, 
I  only  hope  they  come  out  this  time." 

He  rang  down  "Slow"  to  the  tiny  engine- 
room  underneath  his  feet,  and  spun  the  wheel 
to  bring  the  crowded  boat  alongside  the  port 
gangway. 

A  Fleet  proceeds  to  sea  in  War-time  with  little 
or  no  outward  circumstance.  There  was  no  ap- 
parent increase  of  activity  onboard  the  great  fighting 
"townships"  even  on  the  eve  of  departure.  As  the 
late  afternoon  wore  on  the  Signal  Department  on- 
board the  Fleet  Flagship  was  busy  for  a  space,  and 
the  daylight  signalling  searchlights  splashed  and 
spluttered  while  hoist  after  hoist  of  flags  leaped  from 
the  signal  platform  to  yardarm  or  masthead;  and 
ever  as  they  descended  fresh  successive  tangles 
climbed  to  take  their  place.  But  after  a  while  even 
this  ceased,  and  the  Flagships  of  the  squadrons,  who 
had  been  taking  it  all  in,  nodded  sagely,  as  it  were, 
and  turned  round  to  repeat  for  the  benefit  of  the 


"ARMA  VIRUMQUE  i  .   ."          169 

ships  of  their  individual  squadrons  such  portions  as 
they  required  for  their  guidance. 

Then  from  their  hidden  anchorage  the  Destroyers 
moved  past  on  their  way  out,  flotilla  after  flotilla  in 
a  dark,  snake-like  procession,  swift,  silent,  mysterious, 
and  a  little  later  the  Cruisers  and  Light  Cruisers  crept 
out  in  the  failing  light  to  take  up  their  distant  posi- 
tions. On  each  high  forecastle  the  minute  figures 
of  men  were  visible  moving  about  the  crawling  cables, 
and  from  the  funnels  a  slight  increased  haze  of  smoke 
trembled  upwards  like  the  breath  of  war-horses  in 
a  frosty  landscape. 

One  by  one  the  dripping  anchors  hove  in  sight. 
The  water  under  the  sterns  of  the  Battleships  was 
convulsed  by  whirling  vortices  as  the  great  steel-shod 
bulks  turned  cautiously  towards  the  entrance,  like 
partners  revolving  in  some  solemn  gigantic  minuet. 
The  dusk  was  fast  closing  down,  but  a  saffron  bar 
of  light  in  the  West  still  limned  the  dark  outlines 
of  the  far-off  hills.  One  by  one  the  majestic  fighting 
ships  moved  into  their  allotted  places  in  the  line,  and 
presently 

"Enormous,  certain,  slow  .   .   ." 

the  lines  began  to  move  in  succession  towards  the 
entrance  and  the  open  sea. 

The  light  died  out  of  the  western  sky  altogether, 
and  like  great  grey  shadows  the  last  of  the  Battle- 
squadrons  melted  into  the  mystery  of  the  night. 


CHAPTER  IX 

"SWEETHEARTS  AND  WIVES" 

BETTY  finished  her  breakfast  very  slowly;  she 
had  dawdled  over  it,  not  because  there  was  any- 
thing wrong  with  her  appetite,  but  because  the  days 
were  long  and  meals  made  a  sort  of  break  in  the 
monotony.  She  rose  from  the  table  at  length  and 
walked  to  the  open  casement  window;  a  cat,  curled 
up  on  the  rug  in  front  of  the  small  wood  fire,  opened 
one  eye  and  blinked  contemplatively  at  the  slim  figure 
in  the  silk  shirt,  the  short  brown  tweed  skirt  above 
the  brown-stockinged  ankles,  and  finally  at  the  neat 
brogues,  one  of  which  was  tapping  meditatively  on 
the  carpet.  Then  he  closed  his  eyes  again. 

"Would  it  be  to-day?"  wondered  Betty  for  about 
the  thousandth  time  in  the  last  eight  days.  She 
stared  out  across  the  little  garden,  the  broad  stretch 
of  pasture  beyond  the  dusty  road  that  ended  in  a  con- 
fused fringe  of  trees  bordering  the  blue  waters  of 
the  Firth.  A  flotilla  of  Destroyers  that  had  been 
lying  at  anchor  overnight  had  slipped  from  their 
buoys  and  were  slowly  circling  towards  the  distant 
entrance  to  the  harbour.  Beyond  the  Firth  the  hills 
rose  again,  vividly  green  and  crowned  with  trees. 

A  thrush  in  the  unseen  kitchen  garden  round  a 


170 


"SWEETHEARTS  AND  WIVES"      171 

corner  of  the  cottage  rehearsed  a  few  bars  of  his 
spring  song. 

"It  might  be  to-day,"  he  sang.  "It  might,  it 
might,  it  might — or  it  mightn't!"  He  stopped  ab- 
ruptly. 

Eight  days  had  passed  somehow  since  an  enig- 
matic telegram  from  the  India-rubber  Man  had 
brought  Betty  flying  up  to  Scotland  with  hastily 
packed  trunks  and  a  singing  heart. 

Somehow  she  had  expected  him  to  meet  her  at 
the  little  station  she  reached  about  noon  after  an  all- 
night  journey  of  incredible  discomforts.  But  no 
India-rubber  Man  had  been  there  to  welcome  her; 
instead  a  pretty  girl  with  hair  of  a  rusty  gold,  a  year 
or  two  her  senior,  had  come  forward  rather  shyly 
and  greeted  her. 

"Are  you  Mrs.  Standish?"  she  asked,  smiling. 

Despite  the  six-months-old  wedding  ring  on  her 
hand,  Betty  experienced  a  faint  jolt  of  surprise  at 
hearing  herself  thus  addressed. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  and  glanced  half-expectantly  up 
and  down  the  platform.  "I  hoped  my  husband  would 
be  here.  ..." 

The  stranger  shook  her  head.  "I'm  afraid  his 
squadron  hasn't  come  in  yet,"  she  said,  and  added 
reassuringly,  "but  it  won't  be  long  now.  Your  sister 
wrote  and  told  me  you  were  coming  up.  My  name's 
Etta  Clavering.  ..." 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  said  Betty.  "You  got  me 
rooms,  didn't  you — and  I'm  so  grateful  to  you." 


172  THE  LONG  TRICK 

"Not  at  all,"  said  the  other.  "It's  rather  a  job 
getting  them  as  a  rule,  but  these  just  happened  to  be 
vacant.  Rather  nice  ones:  nice  woman,  too.  No 
bath,  of  course,  but  up  here  you  get  used  to  tubbing 
in  your  basin,  and — and  little  things  like  that.  But 
everything's  nice  and  clean,  and  that's  more  than  some 
of  the  places  are."  They  had  sorted  out  Betty's 
luggage  while  Mrs.  Clave  ring  was  talking,  and  left 
it  with  the  porter  to  bring  on.  "We  can  walk,"  said 
Betty's  guide.  "It's  quite  close,  and  I  expect  you 
won't  be  sorry  to  stretch  your  legs." 

They  skirted  a  little  village  of  grey  stone  cottages 
straggling  on  either  side  of  a  broad  street  towards  a 
wooded  glen,  down  which  a  river  wound  brawling 
to  join  the  waters  of  the  Firth.  Cottages  and  little 
shops  alternated,  and  half-way  up  the  street  a  rather 
more  pretentious  hotel  of  quarried  stone  rose  above 
the  level  of  the  roofs.  Hills  formed  a  background 
to  the  whole,  with  clumps  of  dark  fir  clinging  to  the 
steep  slopes,  and  in  the  far  distance  snow-capped 
mountains  stood  like  pale  opals  against  the  blue  sky. 
The  air  was  keen  and  invigorating,  and  little  clouds 
like  a  flock  of  sheep  drifted  overhead. 

Mrs.  Clavering  led  the  way  past  the  village  to- 
wards a  neat  row  of  cottages  on  the  brow  of  a  little 
hill  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  behind  it,  and  as  they 
ascended  a  steep  lane  she  turned  and  pointed  with 
her  ashplant.  A  confusion  of  chimneys,  cranes  and 
wharves  were  shrouded  in  a  haze  of  smoke  and  the 
kindly  distance. 


''SWEETHEARTS  AND  WIVES"      173 

"You  see,"  she  said,  "you  can  almost  see  the  har- 
bour from  your  house.  That's  where  the  ships  lie 
when  they  come  in  here.  This  is  your  abode.  They'll 
send  your  luggage  up  presently.  I  hope  you'll  be 
comfortable.  No,  I  won't  come  in  now.  I  expect 
you're  tired  after  travelling  all  night.  You  must 
come  and  have  tea  with  me,  and  meet  some  of  the 
others."  She  laughed  and  turned  to  descend  the  hill, 
stopping  again  a  few  paces  down  to  wave  a  friendly 
stick. 

Etta  Clavering  occupied  a  low-ceilinged  room 
above  a  baker's  shop  in  the  village,  and  had  strewn  it 
about  with  books  and  photographs  and  nick-nacks 
until  the  drab  surroundings  seemed  to  reflect  a  little 
of  her  dainty  personality.  Thither,  later  in  the  day, 
she  took  Betty  off  to  tea  and  introduced  her  to  a  tall 
fair  girl  with  abundant  hair  and  a  gentle,  rippling 
laugh  that  had  in  it  the  quality  of  running  water. 

"We  belong  to  the  same  squadron,"  she  said. 
"I'm  glad  we've  met  now,  because  directly  our  hus- 
bands' ships  come  in  we  shall  never  see  each  other!" 
She  turned  to  Etta  Clavering.  "It's  like  that  up  here, 
isn't  it?  We  sit  in  each  other's  laps  all  day  till  our 
husbands  arrive,  and  then  we  simply  can't  waste  a 
minute  to  be  civil  .  .  .  !" 

She  laughed  her  soft  ripple  of  amusement,  cut 
short  by  the  entrance  of  another  visitor.  She  was 
older  than  the  other  three :  a  sweet,  rather  grave-faced 
woman  with  patient  eyes  that  looked  as  if  they  had 
watched  and  waited  through  a  great  many  loneli- 


i74  THE  LONG  TRICK 

nesses.    There  was  something  tender,  almost  protect- 
ing, in  her  smile  as  she  greeted  Betty. 

"You  have  only  just  come  North,  haven't  you?" 
she  asked.     "The  latest  recruit  to  our  army  of— 
waiters,  I  was  going  to  say,  but  it  sounds  silly.    Wait- 
resse's  hardly  seems  right  either,  does  it?    Anyhow,  I 
hope  you  won't  have  to  wait  for  very  long." 

"I  hope  not,"  said  Betty,  a  trifle  forlornly. 

"So  do  I,"  said  the  tall  fair  girl  whose  name  was 
Eileen  Cavendish.  "I  am  developing  an  actual  liver 
out  of  sheer  jealousy  of  some  of  these  women  whose 
husbands  are  on  leave.  When  Bill  comes  I  shall 
hang  on  his  arm  in  my  best  'clinging-ivy-and-the-oak' 
style,  and  walk  him  up  and  down  outside  the  hateful 
creatures'  windows !  It'll  be  their  turn  to  gnash  their 
teeth  then!" 

Betty  joined  in  the  laughter.  "Are  there  many 
of — of  Us  up  here?"  she  asked. 

"There  are  as  many  as  the  village  will  hold,  and 
every  farm  and  byre  and  cow-shed  for  about  six  miles 
round,"  replied  Mrs.  Gascoigne,  the  new-comer. 
"And,  of  course,  the  little  town,  about  four  miles 
from  here,  near  where  the  ships  anchor,  simply 
couldn't  hold  another  wife  if  you  tried  to  lever  one  in 
with  a  shoe-horn!" 

"And  then,"  continued  their  hostess,  measuring 
out  the  tea  into  the  pot,  "of  course,  there  are  some 
selfish  brutes  who  stay  on  all  the  time — I'm  one  of 
them,"  she  added  pathetically.  "But  it's  no  use 
being  a  hypocrite  about  it.  I'd  stay  on  if  they  all  put 


"SWEETHEARTS  AND  WIVES"      175 

me  in  Coventry  and  I  had  to  pawn  my  wedding  ring 
to  pay  for  my  rooms.  One  feels  nearer,  somehow. 
.  .  .  Do  sit  down  all  of  you.  There's  nothing  to 
eat  except  scones  and  jam,  but  the  tea  is  nice  and  hot, 
and  considering  I  bought  it  at  that  little  shop  near 
the  manse,  it  looks  and  smells  very  like  real  tea." 

"I  suppose,  then,  all  the  rooms  are  dreadfully 
expensive,"  said  Betty. 

"Expensive !"  echoed  the  fair  girl,  consuming  her 
buttered  scone  with  frank  enjoyment.  "You  could 
live  at  the  Ritz  or  Waldorf  a  good  deal  cheaper  than 
in  some  of  these  crofter's  cottages.  You  see,  until 
the  War  began  they  never  let  anything  in  their  lives. 
No  one  ever  wanted  to  come  and  live  here.  Of 
course,  there  are  nice  women — like  your  Miss 
McCallum,  for  example — who  won't  take  advantage 
of  the  enormous  demand,  and  stick  to  reasonable 
prices.  More  honour  to  them!  But  if  you  could 
see  some  of  the  hovels  for  which  they  are  demanding 
six  and  seven  guineas  a  week — and,  what's  more, 
getting  it.  .  .  ,.," 

"I'm  afraid  we  are  giving  Mrs.  Standish  an  alto- 
gether rather  gloomy  picture  of  the  place,"  said  Mrs. 
Gascoigne.  She  turned  to  Betty  with  a  reassuring 
smile.  "You  don't  have  to  pay  anything  to  be  out 
of  doors,"  she  said.  "That  much  is  free,  even  here ; 
it's  perfectly  delightful  country,  and  when  the  weather 
improves  a  bit  we  have  picnics  and  walks  and  even 
do  a  little  fishing  in  an  amateurish  sort  of  way.  It 
all  helps  to  pass  the  time.  ..." 


176  THE  LONG  TRICK 

"But  it's  not  only  the  prices  that  turn  one's  hair 
grey  up  here,"  continued  Mrs.  Cavendish.  "That 
little  Mrs.  Thatcher — her  husband  is  in  a  Destroyer 
or  something — told  me  that  her  landlady  has  false 
teeth.  ..."  The  speaker  extended  a  slender  fore- 
finger, to  which  she  imparted  a  little  wriggling  mo- 
tion. "They  wobble  .  .  .  like  that — when  she  talks. 
She  always  talks  when  she  brings  in  meals.  ...  I 

suppose  it's  funny,  really "  She  lapsed  into  her 

liquid  giggle.  "But  poor  Mrs.  Thatcher  nearly  cried 
when  she  told  me  about  it.  Imagine !  Week  in, 
week  out.  Every  meal  .  .  .  and  trying  not  to 
look  .  .  .  !  She  said  it  made  her  want  to  scream." 

"I  should  certainly  scream,"  said  Mrs.  Gascoigne, 
who  had  finished  her  tea  and  was  preparing  to  take 
her  departure.  "Now  I  must  be  off.  I've  promised 
to  go  and  sit  with  Mrs.  Daubney.  She's  laid  up, 
poor  thing,  and  it's  so  dull  for  her  all  alone  in  those 
stuffy  rooms."  She  held  out  her  hand  to  Betty.  "I 
hope  we  shall  see  a  lot  more  of  each  other,"  she 
said  prettily.  "We're  going  to  show  you  some  of 
the  walks  round  here,  and  we'll  take  our  tea  out  to 
the  woods.  ...  I  hope  you'll  be  happy  up  here." 

The  door  closed  behind  her,  and  Eileen  Cavendish 
explored  the  room  in  search  of  cigarettes.  "Sybil 
Gascoigne  is  a  dear,"  she  observed. 

"On  the  little  table,  there,"  said  the  hostess.  "In 
that  box.  Do  you  smoke,  Mrs.  Standish?"  Mrs. 
Standish,  it  appeared,  did  not.  "Throw  me  one, 
Eileen."  She  caught  and  lit  it  with  an  almost  mas- 


"SWEETHEARTS  AND  WIVES'1      177 

culine  neatness.  "Yes,"  she  continued,  "she's  per- 
fectly sweet.  Her  husband  is  a  senior  Post-captain, 
and  there  isn't  an  atom  of  'side'  or  snobbishness  in 
her  composition.  She  is  just  as  sweet  to  that  hope- 
lessly dull  and  dreary  Daubney  woman  as  she  is  to — 
well,  to  charming  and  well-bred  attractions  like  our- 
selves!" The  speaker  laughingly  blew  a  cloud  of 
smoke  and  turned  to  Betty.  "In  a  sense,  this  war  has 
done  us  good.  You've  never  lived  in  a  Dockyard 
Port,  though.  You  don't  know  the  insane  snobberies 
and  the  ludicrous  little  castes  that  flourished  in  pre- 
war days." 

"I  dare  say  you're  right,"  said  Eileen  Cavendish. 
She  moved  idly  about  the  room  examining  photo- 
graphs and  puffing  her  cigarette.  "But  even  the 
War  isn't  going  to  make  me  fall  on  the  neck  of  a 
woman  I  don't  like.  But  I'm  talking  like  a  cat.  It's 
not  seeing  Bill  for  so  long.  ..." 

Mrs.  Clavering  smiled.  "No,"  she  said,  "I  agree 
there  are  limits.  But  up  here,  what  does  it  matter  if 
a  woman's  husband  is  an  Engineer  or  a  Paymaster 
or  a  Commander  or  only  an  impecunious  Lieutenant 
like  mine — as  long  as  she  is  nice?  Yet  if  it  weren't 
for  people  like  Sybil  Gascoigne  we  should  all  be 
clinging  to  our  ridiculous  little  pre-war  sets,  and  talk- 
ing of  branches  and  seniority  till  we  died  of  loneli- 
ness and  boredom  with  our  aristocratic  noses  in  the 
air.  .  .  .  As  it  is,  I  don't  believe  even  Sybil  Gas- 
coigne could  have  done  it  if  she  hadn't  been  the 
Honourable  Mrs.  Gascoigne.  That  carried  her  over 


178  THE  LONG  TRICK 

some  pretty  rough  ground,  childish  though  it 
sounds." 

"Bong  Song!"  interposed  Mrs.  Cavendish  flip- 
pantly. "As "  She  broke  off  abruptly.  "There 

I  go  again!  There's  no  doubt  about  it:  I  have  got 
a  liver  .  .  ..  I  think  I'll  go  home  and  write  to  Bill. 
That  always  does  me  good." 

That  tea-party  was  the  first  of  many  similar  in- 
formal gatherings  of  grass-widows  in  poky  rooms  and 
cottage  parlours.  They  were  quite  young  for  the 
most  part,  and  many  were  pretty.  They  drank  each 
other's  tea  and  talked  about  their  husbands  and  the 
price  of  things,  and  occasionally  of  happenings  in 
an  incredibly  remote  past  when  one  hunted  and  went 
to  dances  and  bought  pretty  frocks. 

It  was  Etta  Clavering  who  conducted  Betty  round 
the  village  shops  on  the  morning  after  her  arrival, 
where  she  was  introduced  to  the  small  Scottish  shop- 
keeper getting  rich  quick,  and  the  unedifying  revela- 
tion of  naked  greed  cringing  behind  every  tiny 
counter. 

Through  Eileen  Cavendish,  moreover,  she 
secured  the  goodwill  of  a  washerwoman. 

"My  dear,"  said  her  benefactress,  "money  won't 
tempt  them.  They've  got  beyond  that.  They've  got 
to  like  you  before  they  will  wring  out  a  stocking  for 
you.  But  I'll  take  you  to  the  Widow  Twankey; 
I'm  one  of  her  protegees,  and  she  shows  her  affection 
for  me  by  feeling  for  my  ribs  with  her  first  two 
fingers  to  punctuate  her  remarks  with  prods.  It 


"SWEETHEARTS  AND  WIVES"      179 

always  makes  me  hysterical.  She  has  only  got  two 
teeth,  and  they  don't  meet." 

So  the  Widow  Twankey  was  sought  out,  and 
Betty  stood  and  looked  appealingly  humble  while 
Etta  Cavendish  suffered  her  ribs  to  be  prodded  in  a 
good  cause,  and  the  Widow  agreed  to  "wash  for" 
Betty  at  rates  that  would  have  brought  blushes  to 
the  cheeks  of  a  Parisian  blanchisseuse  de  fin. 

With  Mrs.  Gascoigne,  Betty  explored  the  heath- 
ery moors  where  the  distraught  pee-wits  were  already 
nesting,  and  the  cool,  clean  air  blew  down  from  the 
snowy  Grampians,  bracing  the  walkers  like  a  draught 
of  iced  wine.  They  even  climbed  some  of  the  nearer 
hills,  forcing  their  way  through  the  tangled  spruce- 
branches  and  undergrowth  to  the  summit,  from  where 
the  distant  North  Sea  itself  was  visible,  lying  like  a 
grey  menace  to  their  peace. 

They  would  return  from  these  expeditions  by  the 
path  down  the  glen  that  wound  close  to  the  brawling 
river;  here,  in  the  evenings,  sometimes  with  an  un- 
expectedness embarrassing  to  both  parties,  they  met 
some  of  the  reunited  couples  whom  Eileen  Cavendish 
found  it  hard  to  contemplate  unmoved;  occasionally 
the  fingers  of  such  couples  were  interlaced,  and  they 
talked  very  earnestly  as  they  walked. 

On  fine  days  the  husbandless  wives  organised 
picnics  and  boiled  the  kettle  over  a  fire  of  twigs.  On 
these  occasions  the  arrangements  were  generally  in 
the  hands  of  a  fat,  jolly  woman  everyone  called  "Mrs. 
Pat."  She  it  was  who  chose  the  site,  built  the  fire  with 


i8o  THE  LONG  TRICK 

gipsy  cunning,  and  cut  the  forked  sticks  on  which  the 
kettle  hung.  The  meal  over,  Mrs.  Pat  would  pro- 
duce a  blackened  cigarette  holder  and  sit  and  smoke 
with  reflective  enjoyment  while  she  translated  the 
rustling,  furtive  sounds  of  life  in  brake  and  hedge- 
row around  them  for  the  benefit  of  anyone  who 
cared  to  listen.  No  one  knew  whence  she  had 
acquired  such  mysterious  completeness  of  knowledge. 
It  was  as  if  an  invisible  side  of  her  walked  hand  in 
hand  with  Nature ;  sap  oozing  from  a  bursting  bu3, 
laden  bee  or  fallen  feather,  each  was  to  Mrs.  Pat  the 
chapter  of  a  vast  romance :  and  if  she  bored  anyone 
with  her  interpretation  of  it,  they  had  only  got  to 
get  up  and  go  for  a  walk. 

She  had  a  niece  staying  with  her,  the  fiancee  of 
a  Lieutenant  in  her  husband's  ship,  a  slim  thing  with 
blue  eyes  and  a  hint  of  the  Overseas  in  the  lazy,  un- 
studied grace  of  her  movements.  She  spoke  spar- 
ingly, and  listened  to  the  conversation  of  the  others 
with  her  eyes  always  on  the  distant  grey  shadow  that 
was  the  sea.  Thus  the  days  passed. 

In  the  evenings  Betty  read  or  knitted  and  in- 
veigled her  stout,  kindly  landlady  into  gossip  on  the 
threshold  while  she  cleared  away  the  evening  meal, 
and  so  the  morning  of  the  ninth  day  found  Betty 
staring  out  of  her  window,  listening  for  the  thrush 
to  begin  again  its  haunting,  unfinished  song. 

An  object  moving  rapidly  along  the  top  of  the 
hedge  that  skirted  the  lane  leading  to  the  cottage 
caught  her  eye ;  she  watched  it  until  the  hedge  termi- 


"SWEETHEARTS  AND  WIVES'*      181 

nated,  when  it  resolved  itself  into  the  top  of  Eileen 
Cavendish's  hat.  Her  pretty  face  was  pink  with 
exertion  and  excitement,  and  she  moved  at  a  gait 
suggestive  of  both  running  and  walking. 

Betty  greeted  her  at  the  gateway  of  her  little 
garden,  and  her  heart  quickened  as  she  ran  to  meet 
the  bearer  of  tidings. 

"My  dear,"  gasped  Mrs.  Cavendish,  "they're 
coming  in  this  morning.  Mrs.  Monro — that's  my 
landlady — has  a  brother  in  the  town :  I  forget  what  he 
does  there,  but  he  always  knows. 

For  an  instant  the  colour  ebbed  from  Betty's 
cheeks,  and  then  her  beating  heart  sent  it  surging 
back  again. 

"But "  she  said.  "Does  that  mean  that  our 

squadron  is  coming  in?" 

"Of  course  it  does,  silly!  Get  your  hat  quick, 
and  we'll  climb  up  to  the  top  of  the  hill  and  see  if 
we  can  get  a  glimpse  of  them  coming  in.  You'll  have 
plenty  of  time  to  get  down  again  and  powder  your 
nose  before  your  Bunje-man,  or  whatever  you 
call  him,  can  get  ashore.  Hurry!  Hurry! 
Hurry!" 

Together  they  toiled  up  the  hill  to  the  high  stretch 
of  moorland  from  which  a  view  of  the  entrance  to 
the  Firth  could  be  obtained. 

"This  is  where  I  always  come,"  said  Eileen  Cav- 
endish. She  stopped  and  panted  for  breath.  "Ouf! 
I'm  getting  fat  and  short-winded.  How  long  is  it 
since  you've  seen  your  husband?" 


V 


1 82  THE  LONG  TRICK 

Betty  considered.  "Three  months  and  seventeen 
days,"  was  the  reply. 

Her  companion  nodded. 

"It's  rotten,  isn't  it  ?  But  now — at  times  like  this, 
I  almost  feel  as  if  it's — worth  it,  I  was  going  to  say; 
but  I  suppose  it's  hardly  that.  I  always  vowed  I'd 
never  marry  a  sailor,  and  ever  since  I  did  I've  felt 
sorry  for  all  the  women  with  other  kinds  of  husbands. 
.  .  .  Bill  is  such  a  dear!" 

They  found  seats  in  the  lee  of  a  stack  of  peat 
and  sat  down  side  by  side  to  watch  the  distant  en- 
trance. A  faint  grey  haze  beyond  the  headlands  on 
either  side  of  the  mouth  of  the  harbour  held  the 
outer  sea  in  mystery. 

"There's  nothing  in  sight,"  said  Betty. 

"No,"  said  the  other,  "but  there  will  be  presently. 
You  wait."  She  put  her  elbows  on  her  knees  and 
rested  her  face  in  the  cup  of  her  two  hands.  "You 
haven't  got  used  to  waiting  yet,"  she  continued.  "It 
seems  to  have  made  up  half  my  life  since  I  met  Bill. 
I  had  a  little  daughter  once,  and  it  didn't  matter  so 
much  then.  .  .  .  But  she  died,  the  mite  ..." 

No  Battleships  had  emerged  from  the  blue-grey 
curtain  of  the  mist  when  lunch-time  came;  nothing 
moved  across  the  surface  of  the  empty  harbour,  and 
they  descended  the  hill  to  share  the  meal  in  Betty's 
room. 

"Perhaps  they  won't  be  in  till  after  tea,"  sug- 
gested Betty.  "Perhaps  the  fog  has  delayed  them." 

"Perhaps,"  said  the  other. 


"SWEETHEARTS  AND  WIVES"      183 

So  they  put  tea  in  a  Thermos  flask,  and  bread- 
and-butter  and  a  slice  of  cake  apiece  in  a  little  basket, 
and  climbed  again  to  their  vantage  point  in  the  lee 
of  the  peat  stack.  They  read  novels  and  talked  in 
desultory  snatches  through  the  afternoon.  Then  they 
had  tea  and  told  each  other  about  the  books  they 
were  reading.  But  as  their  shadows  lengthened  across 
the  blaeberry  and  heather,  the  silences  grew  longer, 
and  Betty,  striving  to  concentrate  her  interest  on  her 
book,  found  the  page  grow  suddenly  blurred  and 
incomprehensible.  .  .  . 

"It's  getting  chilly,"  said  the  elder  girl  at  length. 
She  rose  to  her  feet  with  a  little  involuntary  shiver, 
and  stood  for  a  moment  staring  out  towards  the  sea. 
"I  wonder  ..."  she  began,  and  her  voice  trailed 
off  into  silence. 

Betty  began  slowly  to  repack  the  basket. 

"Sometimes  I  pray,"  said  Eileen  Cavendish, 
"when  I  want  things  to  happen  very  much.  And 
sometimes  I  just  hold  my  thumbs  like  a  pagan.  Some- 
times I  do  both.  Let's  do  both  now." 

So  they  sat  silent  side  by  side ;  one  held  her  breath 
and  the  other  held  her  thumbs,  but  only  the  dusk 
crept  in  from  the  sea. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  MIST 

THOROGOOD,  Lieutenant  of  the  Afternoon 
Watch,  climbed  the  ladder  to  the  upper  bridge 
as  the  bell  struck  the  half-hour  after  noon.  A  blue 
worsted  muffler,  gift  and  handiwork  of  an  aunt  on 
the  outbreak  of  war,  enfolded  his  neck.  He  wore 
a  pair  of  glasses  in  a  case  slung  over  one  shoulder 
and  black  leather  gauntlet- gloves. 

The  Officer  of  the  Forenoon  Watch,  known 
among  his  messmates  as  Tweedledee,  was  focusing 
the  range-finder  on  the  ship  ahead  of  them  in  the 
line;  he  looked  round  as  the  new-comer  appeared, 
and  greeted  him  with  a  grin. 

"Hullo,  James,"  he  said.  "Your  afternoon 
watch?  Well,  here  you  are."  He  made  a  compre- 
hensive gesture  embracing  the  vast  Fleet  that  was 
spread  out  over  the  waters  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach. 

"Divisions  in  line  ahead,  columns  disposed  abeam, 
course  S.E.  Speed,  15  knots.  Glass  low  and  steady. 
The  Cruisers  are  ahead  there,  beyond  the  De- 
stroyers," he  nodded  ahead.  "But  you  can't  see 
them  because  of  the  mist.  The  Battle-cruisers  are 
somewhere  beyond  them  again,  with  their  Light 

184 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  MIST       185 

Cruisers  and  Destroyers — about  thirty  miles  to  the 
southward.  The  hands  are  at  dinner  and  all  is  peace. 
She's  keeping  station  quite  well  now."  The  speaker 
moved  to  the  range-finder  again  and  peered  into  it 
at  the  next  ahead.  "Right  to  a  yard,  James.'* 

Thorogood  nodded.  uThank  you:  I  hope  I'll 
succeed  in  keeping  her  there.  Any  news?" 

"News?"    The  other  laughed.    "What  about?" 

"Well,"  replied  Thorogood,  "the  perishing  Hun, 
let's  say." 

The  Navigator  thoughtfully  biting  the  end  of  a 
pencil,  came  out  of  the  chart-house  with  a  note-book 
in  his  hand,  in  which  he  had  been  working  out  the 
noon  reckoning. 

"Pilot,"  said  the  departing  Officer  of  the  Fore- 
noon Watch,  "James  is  thirsting  for  news  of  the 
enemy." 

"Optimist!"  replied  the  Navigator  composedly. 
"News,  indeed!  This  isn't  Wolff's  Agency,  my  lad. 
This  is  a  Cook's  tour  of  the  North  Sea."  He  sniffed 
the  damp,  salt  breeze.  "Bracing  air,  change  of 
scenery:  no  undue  excitement — sort  of  rest  cure,  in 
fact  And  you  come  along  exhibiting  a  morbid  crav- 
ing for  excitement." 

"I  know,"  said  Thorogood  meekly.  "It's  the 
effect  of  going  to  the  cinematograph.  All  the  magis- 
trates are  talking  about  it.  They  say  Charlie  Chap- 
lin's got  something  to  do  with  it.  I  suppose,  though, 
there's  no  objection  to  my  asking  what  the  disposition 
of  our  Light  Cruisers  happens  to  be,  is  there?  It's 


1 86  THE  LONG  TRICK 

prompted  more  by  a  healthy  desire  to  improve  my 
knowledge  before  I  take  over  the  afternoon  watch 
than  anything  else." 

"They're  out  on  the  starboard  quarter,"  replied 
the  late  Officer  of  the  Watch.  uYou  can't 
see  them  because  of  this  cursed  mist,  but  they're 
there." 

"Strikes  me  this  afternoon  watch  is  going  to  be 
more  of  a  faith  cure  than  a  rest  cure  as  the  Pilot 
suggests,"  grumbled  Thorogood.  "Battle-cruisers 
somewhere  ahead,  Cruisers  invisible  in  the  mist,  Light 
Cruisers—" 

The  report  of  a  gun,  followed  almost  instantly 
by  a  loud  explosion,  came  from  far  away  on  the 
port  bow.  A  Destroyer  that  had  altered  course  was 
resuming  her  position  in  the  Destroyer  line  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  Fleet.  A  distant  column  of  smoke 
and  spray  was  slowly  dissolving  into  the  North  Sea 
haze. 

At  the  report  of  the  gun  the  three  men  raised 
their  glasses  to  stare  in  the  direction  of  the  sound. 
"Only  one  of  the  Huns'  floating  mines,"  said  the 
Navigator.  "She  exploded  it  with  her  3-pounder. 
Pretty  shot." 

"Well,"  said  Tweedledee,  "I  can't  stay  here  all 
day.  Anything  else  you  want  to  know,  James  ? 
What's  for  lunch?  I'm  devilish  hungry." 

"Boiled  beef  and  carrots,"  replied  Thorogood. 
"Mit  apple  tart  and  cream:  the  Messman  can't  be 
well.  Pills  says  its  squando-mania.  No,  I  don't 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  MIST       187 

think  I  want  to  know  any  more.  I  suppose  the  log's 
written  up?" 

"It  is.  Now  for  the  boiled  beef,  and  this  after- 
noon Little  Bright-eyes  is  going  to  get  his  head 
down  and  have  a  nice  sleep." 

The  speaker  prepared  to  depart. 

"Hold  on,"  said  the  Navigator.  "I'm  coming 
with  you.  I've  just  got  to  give  the  noon  position  to 
the  Owner  on  the  way." 

They  descended  the  ladder  together,  and  left 
Thorogood  alone  on  the  platform. 

The  Battle-fleet  was  steaming  in  parallel  lines 
about  a  mile  apart,  each  Squadron  in  the  wake  of  its 
Flagship.  The  Destroyers,  strung  out  on  either  flank 
of  the  Battle-fleet,  were  rolling  steadily  in  the  long, 
smooth  swell,  leaving  a  smear  of  smoke  in  their  trail. 
Far  away  in  the  mist  astern  flickered  a  very  bright 
light:  the  invisible  Light  Cruisers  must  be  there,  re- 
flected Thorogood,  and  presently  from  the  Fleet  Flag- 
ship came  a  succession  of  answering  blinks.  The 
light  stopped  flickering  out  of  the  mist. 

The  speed  at  which  the  Fleet  was  travelling  sent 
the  wind  thrumming  through  the  halliards  and  funnel 
stays  and  past  Thorogood's  ears  with  a  little  whist- 
ling noise;  otherwise  few  sounds  reached  him  at  the 
altitude  at  which  he  stood.  On  the  signal-platform 
below,  a  number  of  signalmen  were  grouped  round 
the  flag-lockers  with  the  halliards  in  their  hands  in 
instant  readiness  to  hoist  a  signal.  The  Signal  Boat- 
swain had  steadied  his  glass  against  a  semaphore,  and 


1 88  THE  LONG  TRICK 

was  studying  something  on  the  misty  outskirts  of 
the  Fleet.  The  Quartermaster  at  the  wheel  was 
watching  the  compass  card  with  a  silent  intensity  that 
made  his  face  look  as  if  it  had  been  carved  in  bronze. 
The  telegraph-men  maintained  a  conversation  that 
was  pitched  in  a  low,  deep  note  inaudible  two  yards 
away.  It  concerned  the  photograph  of  a  mutual  lady 
acquaintance,  and  has  no  place  in  this  narrative. 

Thorogood  moved  to  the  rail  and  looked  down 
at  the  familiar  forecastle  and  teeming  upper-deck, 
thirty  feet  below.  Seen  thus  from  above,  the  grey, 
sloping  shields  of  the  turrets,  each  with  its  great  twin 
guns,  looked  like  gigantic  mythical  tortoises  with 
two  heads  and  disproportionately  long  necks.  It  was 
the  dinner  hour,  and  men  were  moving  about,  walking 
up  and  down,  or  sitting  about  in  little  groups  smok- 
ing. Some  were  playing  cards  in  places  sheltered 
from  the  wind  and  spray;  near  the  blacksmith's  forge 
a  man  was  stooping  patiently  over  a  small  black 
object:  Thorogood  raised  his  glasses  for  a  moment 
and  recognised  the  ship's  cat,  reluctantly  undergoing 
instruction  in  jumping  through  the  man's  hands. 

The  cooks  of  the  Messes  were  wending  their  way 
in  procession  to  the  chutes  at  the  ship's  sides,  carrying 
mess-kettles  containing  scraps  and  slops  from  the 
mess-deck  dinner.  For  an  instant  the  Officer  of  the 
Watch,  looking  down  from  that  altitude  and  cut  off 
from  all  sounds  but  that  of  the  wind,  experienced  a 
feeling  of  unfamiliar  detachment  from  the  pulsating 
mass  of  metal  beneath  his  feet.  He  had  a  vision 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  MIST       189 

of  the  electric-lit  interior  of  the  great  ship,  deck  be- 
neath deck,  with  men  everywhere.  Men  rolled  up  in 
coats  and  oilskins,  snatching  half-an-hour's  sleep  along 
the  crowded  gun-batteries,  men  writing  letters  to 
sweethearts  and  wives,  men  laughing  and  quarreling, 
or  singing  low-toned,  melancholy  ditties  as  they 
mended  worn  garments:  hundreds  and  hundreds  of 
reasoning  human  entities  were  crowded  in  those  steel- 
walled  spaces,  each  with  his  boundless  hopes  and  affec- 
tions, his  separate  fears  and  vices  and  conceptions 
of  the  Deity,  and  his  small,  incommunicable  dis- 
tresses. .  .  . 

Beneath  all  that  again,  far  below  the  surface  of 
the  grey  North  Sea,  were  men,  moving  about  purring 
turbines  and  dynamos  and  webs  of  stupendous  ma- 
chinery, silently  oiling,  testing  and  adjusting  a  thou- 
sand moving  joints  of  metal.  There  were  adjoining 
caverns  lit  by  the  glare  of  furnaces  that  shone  red  on 
the  glistening  faces  of  men,  silent  vaults  and  passages 
where  the  projectiles  were  ranged  in  sinister  array, 
and  chilly  spaces  in  which  the  electric  light  was 
reflected  from  the  burnished  and  oiled  torpedoes 
that  hung  in  readiness  above  the  submerged 
tubes. 

Thorogood  raised  his  eyes  and  stared  out  across  _ 
the  vast  array  of  the  Battle-fleet.  Obedient  to  the 
message  flashed  from  the  Flagship  a  few  minutes 
earlier,  the  Light  Cruisers  that  had  been  invisible  on 
the  quarter  now  emerged  from  behind  the  curtain  of 
the  mist  and  were  rapidly  moving  up  to  a  new  posi- 


190  THE  LONG  TRICK 

tion.  Presently  the  same  mysterious,  soundless  voice 
spoke  again: 

YOU  ARE  MAKING  TOO  MUCH  SMOKE 

blinked  the  glittering  searchlight,  and  anon  in  the 
stokeholds  of  the  end  ship  of  the  lee  line  there  was 
the  stokehold  equivalent  for  weeping  and  wailing 
and  the  gnashing  of  teeth.  .  .  . 

For  a  couple  of  hours  the  Fleet  surged  onwards 
in  silence  and  unchanged  formation.  The  swift  Light 
Cruisers  had  overtaken  the  advancing  Battle-fleet, 
and  vanished  like  wraiths  into  the  haze  ahead.  The 
Captain  and  the  Navigator  had  joined  Thorogood 
on  the  bridge,  and  were  poring  over  the  chart  and 
talking  in  low  voices.  The  Midshipman  of  the 
Watch  stood  with  eyes  glued  to  the  range-finder, 
turning  his  head  at  intervals  to  report  the  distance 
of  the  next  ahead  to  the  Officer  of  the  Watch. 

A  messenger  from  the  Coding  Officer  tumbled 
pell-mell  up  the  ladder  and  handed  a  piece  of  folded 
paper  to  the  Captain,  saluted,  turned  on  his  heel  and 
descended  the  ladder  again.  The  Captain  unfolded 
the  signal  and  read  with  knitted  brows.  Then  he 
turned  quickly  to  the  chart  again. 

For  a  moment  he  was  busy  with  dividers  and 
parallel-rulers ;  when  he  raised  his  head  his  eyes  were 
alight  with  a  curiously  restrained  excitement. 

"Rather  interesting,"  he  said,  and  passed  the 
paper  to  the  Navigator,  who  read  it  in  turn  and 
grinned  like  a  schoolboy. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  MIST       191 

"They  have  probably  caught  a  raiding  party  in 
the  mist,  sir,"  he  said,  and  bent  over  the  chart. 

Thorogood  picked  up  the  message  and  pursed  his 
lips  up  in  a  short,  soundless  whistle. 

"It's  too  much  to  hope  that  their  main  fleet's  out," 
he  said. 

"Their  main  fleet's  sure  to  be  in  support  some- 
where," replied  the  Captain.  "It's  a  question 
whether  they  realise  we're  all  down  on  top  of  'em, 
though,  and  nip  for  home  before  we  catch  them." 

A  second  messenger  flung  himself,  panting,  up  the 
ladder,  and  handed  in  a  second  message. 

"Intercepted  wireless  to  Flag,  sir." 

The  Captain  read  it  and  took  a  breath  that  was 
like  a  sigh  of  relief.  "At  last !"  he  said. 

The  Navigator  turned  from  the  chart. 

"Der  Tag,  sir?"  he  asked  interrogatively  with  a 
smile. 

The  Captain  nodded  ahead  at  the  haze  curtaining 
all  the  horizon.  "If  we  catch  'em,"  he  replied. 

The  signal  platform  was  awhirl  with  bunting;  the 
voice  of  the  Chief  Yeoman  repeating  hoists  rose  above 
the  stamp  of  feet  and  the  flapping  of  flags  in  the 
wind. 

Thorogood  turned  to  the  Navigator.  "Will  you 
take  on  now?"  he  asked  in  a  low  voice.  "If  the 
balloon's  really  going  up  this  time  I'd  better  get  along 
to  my  battery." 

As  he  descended  the  ladder  the  upper-deck  was 
ringing  with  bugle-calls,  and  the  turrets'  crews  were 


192  THE  LONG  TRICK 

already  swarming  round  their  guns.  From  the  hatch- 
ways leading  to  the  lower-deck  came  a  great  roar  of 
cheering.  Men  poured  up  on  their  way  to  their 
action  stations  in  a  laughing,  rejoicing  throng. 
Mouldy  Jakes,  with  the  ever-faithful  Midshipman 
of  his  turret  at  his  side,  was  hurrying  to  his  beloved 
guns,  and  greeted  Thorogood  as  he  passed  with  a 
sidelong  jerk  of  the  head  and  the  first  whole-souled 
smile  of  enjoyment  a  mess-mate  had  ever  surprised 
on  his  face.  Further  aft  the  Captain  of  Marines 
was  standing  on  the  roof  of  his  slowly  revolving 
turret : 

"Buck  up,  James,"  he  shouted  merrily.  "  'John- 
nie, get  your  gun,  there's  a  cat  in  the  garden' — We're 
going  to  see  Life  in  a  minute,  my  lad!" 

He  was  right,  but  they  were  also  destined  to  see 
Death,  holding  red  carnival. 

Thorogood  waved  his  arm  and  shouted  an  in- 
articulate reply  as  he  ran  aft  to  the  hatchway  leading 
to  the  cabin  flat.  Officers  were  rushing  past  on  their 
way  to  their  posts,  exchanging  chaff  and  conjecture 
as  they  went.  Thorogood  descended  to  the  cabin 
flat,  jerked  back  the  curtain  of  his  cabin,  and  hur- 
riedly entered  the  familiar  apartment.  Opening  a 
drawer  he  snatched  up  a  gas-mask  and  a  packet  con- 
taining first-aid  appliances  which  he  thrust  into  the 
pocket  of  his  swimming  waistcoat,  together  with  a 
flask  and  a  small  tin  of  compressed  meat  lozenges. 
Once  before,  earlier  in  the  war,  he  had  fought  for 
life  clinging  to  a  floating  spar.  Then  succour  had 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  MIST       193 

come  in  a  comparatively  short  time,  but  the  experi- 
ence had  not  been  without  its  lesson. 

He  made  for  the  door  again  and  then  paused 
on  the  threshold  hesitatingly.  "Might  as  well,"  he 
said,  and  turning  back  picked  up  a  small  photograph 
in  a  folding  morocco  frame  and  thrust  it  half-shame- 
facedly  into  an  inside  pocket. 

As  he  emerged  into  the  flat  again  he  met  Gerrard, 
the  Assistant  Paymaster,  struggling  into  a  thick  coat 
outside  the  door  of  his  cabin. 

"Hullo !"  laughed  the  A.P.  "Having  a  last  look 
at  the  old  home,  James?" 

Thorogood  patted  his  pockets.  "Just  taking  in 
provisions  in  case  I  have  to  spend  the  week-end  on 
a  raft.  What's  your  action  station?" 

"Fore-top,"  was  the  reply.  "Taking  notes  of 
the  action.  Now,  have  I  got  everything?  Thermos 
flask — watch — note -book — glasses — right!  En  avant, 
mon  brave/" 

Thorogood  reached  the  6-inch  battery  breath- 
less, and  found  the  guns'  crews  busy  tricing  up  their 
mess-tables  overhead.  The  Gunner  was  passing 
along  the  crowded  deck  ahead  of  him.  He  stopped 
opposite  the  after  gun: 

"They're  out,  lads !"  he  said  grimly.  "Give  'em 
hell,  this  time.  Clear  away  and  close  up  round  your 
guns — smartly  then,  my  hearties!" 

From  the  other  side  of  the  deck  came  the  voice 
of  Tweedledee  giving  orders  to  his  battery,  raised 
above  the  clatter  of  the  ammunition  hoists,  the  thud 


i94  THE  LONG  TRICK 

of  projectiles  as  they  were  placed  in  the  rear  of  each 
gun,  the  snap  and  clang  of  the  breech  as  the  guns 
were  loaded.  .  .  ;.. 

Fire  and  wreckage  parties  stood  in  little  groups 
along  the  main-deck,  and  first-aid  parties  were  gath- 
ered at  the  hatchways;  two  Midshipmen,  pale  and 
bright-eyed  with  excitement,  talked  in  low  voices  by 
the  foremost  gun :  gradually  a  tense  hush  closed  down 
upon  the  main  deck ;  the  crews  stood  silent  round  their 
guns,  waiting  in  their  steel-walled  casemates  for  the 
signal  that  would  galvanise  them  into  death-dealing 
activity  against  the  invisible  foe. 

Ultimate  victory  no  man  doubted:  death  might 
sweep,  swift  and  shattering,  along  these  electric-lit 
enclosed  spaces  where  they  stood  waiting;  the  great 
ship  was  being  driven  headlong  by  unseen  forces  to- 
wards an  unseen  foe.  But  of  that  foe,  none  of  the 
hundreds  of  men  between  decks  save  the  straining 
gunlayers  with  their  eyes  at  the  sighting  telescopes 
would  ever  catch  a  single  glimpse. 

The  silence  was  riven  by  a  roaring  concussion  that 
seemed  to  shake  the  framework  of  the  ship.  The 
great  turret  guns  on  the  upper  deck  had  opened  fire 
with  a  salvo,  and,  as  if  released  by  the  explosion,  a 
burst  of  frantic  cheering  leaped  from  every  throat  and 
echoed  and  reverberated  along  the  decks.  Somewhere 
in  the  outside  world  of  mist  and  sea,  under  the  grey 

Northern  sky,  the  Battle- Fleet  action  had  begun. 

***** 

The  fore-top  was  a  semi-circular  eyrie,  roofed 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  MIST       195 

and  walled  with  steel,  that  projected  from  the  fore 
topmast  some  distance  above  the  giant  tripod.  It 
was  reached  by  iron  rungs  let  into  the  mast,  and  here 
Gerrard,  with  the  din  of  bugles  and  the  cheering  still 
ringing  in  his  ears,  joined  the  assembled  officers  and 
men  whose  station  it  was  in  action. 

From  that  dizzy  elevation  it  was  possible  to  take 
in  the  disposition  of  the  vast  Fleet  at  a  single  glance. 
It  was  like  looking  down  on  model  ships  spread  out 
over  a  grey  carpet  preparatory  to  a  children's  game. 
A  white  flicker  of  foam  at  each  blunt  ram  and  the 
wind  singing  past  the  hooded  top  alone  gave  any  in- 
dication of  the  speed  at  which  the  ships  were  advanc- 
ing. It  was  an  immense  monochrome  of  grey.  Grey 
ships  with  the  White  Ensign  flying  free  on  each :  grey 
sea  flecked  here  and  there  by  the  diverging  bow-waves 
breaking  as  they  met:  a  grey  sky  along  which  the 
smoke  trailed  sullenly  and  gathered  in  a  dense,  low- 
lying  cloud  that  mingled  with  the  haze  astern. 

The  Lieutenant  in  the  top  drew  Gerrard  to  his 
side.  "-Put  your  head  down  here,"  he  said,  "out  of 
the  wind  .  .  .  can  you  hear?"  There  was  a  queer 
ring  of  exultation  in  his  voice.  "Guns !" 

Gerrard  bent  down  and  strained  all  his  faculties  to 
listen.  For  a  moment  he  heard  nothing  but  the  hum 
of  the  wind  and  the  vibration  of  the  engines  trans- 
mitted by  the  mast.  Then,  faint  and  intermittent, 
like  the  far-off  grumble  of  a  gathering  thunderstorm, 
his  ears  caught  a  sound  that  sent  all  his  pulses  ham- 
mering. 


196  THE  LONG  TRICK 

"Thank  God  I've  lived  to  hear  that  noise!"  mut- 
tered the  Lieutenant.  He  straightened  up,  staring 
ahead  through  his  glasses  in  the  direction  of  the  in- 
visible fight. 

For  a  while  no  one  spoke.  The  tense  minutes 
dragged  by  as  the  sounds  of  firing  grew  momentarily 
more  distinct.  The  uncertain  outline  of  the  near 
horizon  was  punctuated  by  vivid  flashes  of  flame  from 
the  guns  of  the  approaching  enemy.  They  were  still 
hidden  by  the  mist  and  apparently  unconscious  of  the 
Battle-Fleet  bearing  down  upon  them  like  some  vast, 
implacable  instrument  of  doom.  The  target  of  their 
guns  suddenly  became  visible  as  the  Battle-cruisers 
appeared  on  the  starboard  bow,  moving  rapidly 
across  the  limit  of  vision  like  a  line  of  grey  phantoms 
spitting  fire  and  destruction  as  they  went.  Misty 
columns  of  foam  that  leaped  up  from  the  water  all 
about  them  showed  that  they  were  under  heavy  fire. 

The  Battle-Fleet  was  deploying  into  Line  of  Battle, 
Squadron  forming  up  astern  of  Squadron  in  a 
single  line  of  mailed  monsters  extending  far  into  the 
haze  that  was  momentarily  closing  in  upon  them. 
The  curtain  ahead  was  again  pierced  by  a  retreating 
force  of  Cruisers  beaten  back  on  the  protection  of 
the  Battle-Fleet  and  ringed  by  leaping  waterspouts 
as  the  enemy's  salvos  pursued  them. 

As  yet  the  enemy  were  invisible,  but  when  the  last 
ship  swung  into  deployment  the  mist  cleared  for  a 
moment  and  disclosed  them  amid  a  cloud  of  smoke 
and  the  furious  flashes  of  guns.  The  moment  had 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  MIST       197 

come,  and  all  along  the  extended  British  battle-line 
the  turret  guns  opened  fire  with  a  roar  of  angry  sound 
that  seemed  to  split  the  grey  vault  of  heaven.  As 
if  to  mock  them  in  that  supreme  instant  the  mist 
swirled  across  again  and  hid  the  German  Fleet 
wheeling  round  in  panic  flight. 

The  gases  belched  from  the  muzzles  of  the  guns, 
together  with  the  smoke  of  hundreds  of  funnels 
caught  and  held  by  the  encircling  mist,  reeled  to  and 
fro  across  the  spouting  water  and  mingled  with  the 
grey  clouds  from  bursting  shell.  Through  it  all  the 
two  Fleets,  the  pursuing  and  the  pursued,  grappled 
in  blindfold  headlong  fury. 

Thorogood's  battery  was  on  the  disengaged  side 
of  the  ship  during  the  earlier  phases  of  the  action. 
Across  the  deck  they  heard  the  guns  of  Tweedledee's 
battery  open  fire  with  a  roar,  and  then  the  cheering 
of  the  crews,  mingled  with  the  cordite  fumes,  was 
drowned  by  an  ear-splitting  detonation  in  the  con- 
fined spaces  of  the  mess  deck,  followed  by  a  blinding 
flash  of  light. 

Tweedledee  was  flung  from  where  he  was  standing 
to  pitch  brokenly  at  the  foot  of  the  hatchway,  like  a 
rag  doll  flung  down  by  a  child  in  a  passion.  He  lay 
outstretched,  face  downwards,  with  his  head  resting 
on  his  forearm  as  if  asleep.  Most  of  the  lights  had 
been  extinguished  by  the  explosion,  but  a  pile  of  car- 
tridges in  the  rear  of  one  of  the  guns  had  caught  fire 
and  burned  fiercely,  illuminating  everything  with  a 
yellow  glare. 


198  THE  LONG  TRICK 

Lettigne,  Midshipman  of  the  battery,  was  un- 
touched; deafened  and  deathly  sick  he  took  command 
of  the  remaining  guns.  He,  who  ten  seconds  before 
had  never  even  seen  death,  was  slithering  about  dimly 
lit  decks,  slippery  with  what  he  dared  not  look  at, 
encouraging  and  steadying  the  crews,  and  helping  to 
extinguish  the  burning  cordite.  In  darkened  corners, 
where  they  had  been  thrown  by  the  explosion,  men 
were  groaning  and  dying.  .  .  . 

That  shell  had  been  one  of  several  that  had  struck 
the  ship  simultaneously.  Mouldy  Jakes  opened  his 
eyes  to  see  a  streak  of  light  showing  through  a  jagged 
rip  in  a  bulkhead.  The  light  was  red  and  hurt  his 
eyes:  he  passed  his  hand  across  his  face,  and  it  was 
wet  with  a  warm  stickiness.  His  vision  cleared,  how- 
ever, and  for  a  few  moments  he  studied  the  drops 
of  water  that  were  dripping  from  the  gash  in  the 
plating.  "Crying!"  he  said  stupidly.  The  shells 
that  pitched  short  had  deluged  the  fore-part  of  the 
ship  with  water,  and  it  was  still  dripping  into  the 
interior  of  the  turret.  Mouldy  Jakes  raised  his  head, 
and  a  yard  or  two  away  saw  Morton.  The  breech  of 
one  of  the  guns  was  open,  and  Morton  was  lying 
limply  over  the  huge  breech-block.  The  machinery 
was  smashed  and  twisted,  and  mixed  up  with  it  were 
dead  men  and  bits  of  men.  .  .  . 

A  little  while  later  the  Fleet  Surgeon,  splashed 
with  red  to  the  elbows,  glanced  up  from  his  work  in 
the  fore-distributing  station  and  saw  a  strange  figure 
descending  the  hatchway.  It  was  Mouldy  Jakes: 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  MIST       199 

his  scalp  was  torn  so  that  a  red  triangular  patch  hung 
rakishly  over  one  eye.  Flung  over  his  shoulder  was 
the  limp  form  of  an  unconscious  Midshipman.  For 
a  moment  he  stood  swaying,  steadying  himself  with 
outstetched  hand  against  the  rail  of  the  ladder. 

"Thought  I'd  better  bring  him  along,"  he  gasped. 
'Turret's  knocked  to  hell.  .  .  .  He's  still  alive,  but 
he's  broken  all  to  little  bits  inside  ...  I  can  feel 
him.  .  .  .  Morton,  snottie  of  my  turret  .  .  ." 

Sickberth  Stewards  relieved  him  of  his  burden, 
and  Mouldy  Jakes  sat  down  on  the  bottom  rung  of 
the  ladder  and  began  to  whimper  like  a  distraught 
child.  ult's  my  hand  .  .  . n  he  said  plaintively,  and 
extended  a  trembling,  shattered  palm.  "I've  only 
just  noticed  it." 

With  his  eye  glued  to  the  periscope  of  his  turret 
the  India-rubber  Man  was  fidgeting  and  swearing 
softly  under  his  breath  at  the  exasperating  treachery 
of  the  fog.  The  great  guns  under  his  control  roared  at 
intervals,  but  before  the  effect  of  the  shell-burst 
could  be  observed  the  enemy  would  be  swallowed 
from  sight.  Once,  at  the  commencement  of  the  action, 
he  thought  of  Betty;  he  thought  of  her  tenderly  and 
reverently,  and  then  put  her  out  of  his  mind.  .  .  . 

Lanes  of  unexpected  visibility  opened  while  an  eye- 
lid winked,  and  disclosed  a  score  of  desperate  fights 
passing  and  reappearing  like  scenes  upon  a  screen. 
A  German  Battleship,  near  and  quite  distinct,  was  in 


200  THE  LONG  TRICK 

sight  for  a  moment,  listing  slowly  over  with  her  guns 
pointing  upwards  like  the  fingers  of  a  distraught  hand, 
and  as  she  sank  the  mist  closed  down  again  as  it  were 
a  merciful  curtain  drawn  to  hide  a  horror.  An  enemy 
Cruiser  dropped  down  the  engaged  side  of  the  line 
like  an  exhausted  participator  in  a  Bacchanal  of 
Furies.  Her  sides  were  riven  and  gaping,  with  a 
red  glare  showing  through  the  rents.  Her  decks 
were  a  ruined  shambles  of  blackened,  twisted  metal, 
but  she  still  spat  defiance  from  a  solitary  gun,  and 
sank  firing  as  the  fight  swept  past. 

Hither  and  thither  rolled  the  fog,  blotting  out  the 
enemy  at  one  moment,  at  another  disclosing  swift 
and  awful  cataclysms.  A  British  Cruiser,  dodging 
and  zigzagging  through  a  tempest  of  shells,  blew  up. 
She  changed  on  the  instant  into  a  column  of  black 
smoke  and  wreckage  that  leaped  up  into  the  outraged 
sky;  it  trembled  there  like  a  dark  monument  to  the 
futile  hate  of  man  for  his  brother  man  and  slowly 
dissolved  into  the  mist.  A  German  Destroyer  attack 
crumpled  up  in  the  blast  of  the  6-inch  batteries  of  the 
British  Fleet,  and  the  British  Destroyers  dashed  to 
meet  their  crippled  onslaught  as  vultures  might  swoop 
on  blinded  wolves.  They  fought  at  point-blank  range, 
asking  no  quarter,  expecting  none;  they  fought  over 
decks  ravaged  by  shrapnel  and  piled  with  dead.  The 
sea  was  thick  with  floating  corpses  and  shattered 
wreckage,  and  darkened  with  patches  of  oil  that 
marked  the  grave  of  a  rammed  Submarine  or  sunken 
Destroyer.  Maimed  and  bleeding  men  dragged 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  MIST       201 

themselves  on  to  rafts  and  cheered  their  comrades  as 
they  left  them  to  their  death. 

Through  that  witches'  cauldron  of  fog  and 
shell-smoke  the  British  Battle-Fleet  groped  for  its 
elusive  foe.  One  minute  of  perfect  visibility,  one  little 
minute  of  clear  range  beyond  the  fog-masked  sights, 
was  all  they  asked  to  deal  the  death-blow  that  would 
end  the  fight — men  prayed  God  for  it  and  died  with 
the  prayer  in  their  teeth. 

But  the  minute  never  came.  The  firing  died  away 
down  the  line ;  the  dumb  guns  moved  blindly  towards 
the  shifting  sounds  of  strife  like  monsters  mouthing 
for  the  prey  that  was  denied  them,  but  the  fog  held 
and  the  merciful  dusk  closed  down  and  covered  the 
flight  of  the  stricken  German  Fleet  for  the  shelter  of 
its  protecting  mine-fields. 

It  was  not  until  night  fell  that  the  British  De- 
stroyers began  their  savage  work  in  earnest.  Flotilla 
after  flotilla  was  detached  from  the  Fleet  and  swal- 
lowed by  the  short  summer  night,  moving  swiftly  and 
relentlessly  to  their  appointed  tasks  like  black  pan- 
thers on  the  trail. 

Cut  off  from  their  base  by  the  British  Fleet  the 
scattered  German  squadrons  dodged  and  doubled 
through  the  darkness,  striving  to  elude  the  cordon 
drawn  across  their  path.  They  can  be  pictured  as 
towering  black  shadows  rushing  headlong  through  the 
night,  with  the  wounded  groaning  between  their 
wreckage-strewn  decks:  and  on  each  bridge,  high 
above  them  in  the  windy  darkness,  men  talked  in 


202  THE  LONG  TRICK 

guttural  monosyllables,  peering  through  high- 
power  glasses  for  the  menace  that  stalked  them. 
.  .  .  On  the  trigger  of  every  gun  there  would  be  a 
twitching  finger,  and  all  the  while  the  blackness  round 
them  would  be  pierced  and  rent  by  distant  spurts  of 
flame.  .  .  . 

The  wind  and  sea  had  risen,  and  over  an  area 
of  several  hundred  square  miles  of  stormy  sea  swept 
the  Terror  by  Night.  Bursting  starshell  and  ques- 
tioning searchlight  fought  with  the  darkness,  betray- 
ing to  the  guns  the  sinister  black  hulls  driving  through 
clouds  of  silver  spray,  the  loaded  tubes  and  stream- 
ing decks,  the  oilskin-clad  figures  on  each  bridge  forc- 
ing the  attack  home  against  the  devastating  blast  of 
the  shrapnel.  Death  was  abroad,  berserk  and  blind- 
fold. A  fleeing  German  Cruiser  fell  among  a 
flotilla  of  Destroyers  and  altered  her  helm,  with  every 
gun  and  searchlight  blazing,  to  ram  the  leading  boat. 
The  Destroyer  had  time  to  alter  course  sufficiently 
to  bring  the  two  ships  bow  to  bow  before  the  impact 
came.  Then  there  was  a  grinding  crash :  forecastle, 
bridge  and  foremost  gun  a  pile  of  wreckage  and 
struggling  figures.  The  blast  of  the  German  guns 
swept  the  funnels,  boats,  cowls  and  men  away  as  a 
gale  blows  dead  leaves  before  it.  Then  the  Cruiser 
swung  clear  and  vanished  into  the  darkness,  pursued 
by  the  remainder  of  the  Flotilla,  and  leaving  the 
Destroyer  reeling  among  the  waves  like  a  man  that 
has  been  struck  in  the  face  with  a  knuckle-duster  by 
a  runaway  thief.  In  the  direction  where  the  Cruiser 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  MIST       203 

had  disappeared  five  minutes  later  a  column  of  flame 
leaped  skyward,  and  the  Flotilla,  vengeance  accom- 
plished, swung  off  through  the  darkness  in  search  of 
a  fresh  quarry. 

All  night  long  the  disabled  Destroyer  rolled  help- 
lessly in  the  trough  of  the  sea.  The  dawn  came  slowly 
across  the  sky,  as  if  apprehensive  of  what  it  might 
behold  on  the  face  of  the  troubled  waters;  in  the 
growing  light  the  survivors  of  the  Destroyer's  crew 
saw  a  crippled  German  Cruiser  trailing  south  at  slow 
speed.  Only  one  gun  remained  in  action  onboard 
the  Destroyer,  and  round  that  gathered  the  bandaged 
remnant  of  what  had  once  been  a  ship's  company. 
They  shook  hands  grimly  among  themselves  and  spat 
and  girded  their  loins  for  their  last  fight. 

The  German  Cruiser  turned  slowly  over  and  sank 
while  they  trained  the  gun.  .  .  . 

A  dismasted  Destroyer,  with  riddled  funnels  and 
a  foot  of  water  swilling  across  the  floor  plates  in  the 
engine-room,  bore  down  upon  them  about  noon  and 
took  her  crippled  sister  in  tow.  They  passed  slowly 
away  to  the  westward,  leaving  the  circle  of  grey,  tum- 
bling sea  to  the  floating  wreckage  of  a  hundred  fights 
and  the  thin  keening  of  the  gulls. 

The  afternoon  wore  on:  five  drenched,  haggard 
men  were  laboriously  propelling  a  life-saving  raft  by 
means  of  paddles  in  the  direction  of  the  English  coast 
that  lay  some  hundred  odd  miles  to  the  west.  The 
waves  washed  over  their  numbed  bodies,  and 
imparted  an  almost  lifelike  air  of  animation  to  the 


204  THE  LONG  TRICK 

corpse  of  a  companion  that  lay  between  them,  staring 
at  the  sullen  sky. 

Suddenly  one  of  the  paddlers  stopped  and  pointed 
ahead.  A  boat  manned  by  four  men  appeared  on 
the  crest  of  a  wave  and  slid  down  a  grey-back  towards 
them.  The  oarsmen  were  rowing  with  slow  strokes, 
and  eventually  the  two  craft  passed  each  other  within 
hailing  distance.  The  men  on  the  raft  stared  hard. 

"'Uns!"  said  one.  " Bloody  'Uns.  .  .  ,  Strictly 
speakin',  we  did  ought  to  fight  'em.  .  .  .  Best  look 
Mother  way,  lads!" 

His  companions  followed  his  example  and  con- 
tinued their  futile  mechanical  paddling  with  averted 
heads. 

The  bow-oar  of  the  German  boat,  who  had  a 
blood-stained  bandage  round  his  head,  also  stared. 

"Englander/9*  he  said.  "Verdammte  Schweine!" 
and  added,  "Funf!  .  .  ."  whereupon  he  and  his 
companions  also  averted  their  heads,  because  they 
were  four. 

They  passed  each  other  thus.  The  waves  that 
washed  over  the  raft  rolled  the  dead  man's  head  to 
and  fro,  as  if  he  found  the  situation  rather  prepos- 
terous. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  AFTERMATH 

SUCH  was  the  Battle  of  the  Mist,  a  triumphant 
assertion  after  nearly  two  years  of  vigil  and  wait- 
ing, of  British  Sea  Power.  It  commenced  with  a 
cloud  of  smoke  on  the  horizon  no  larger  than  a  man's 
hand.  Its  consequences  and  effects  spread  out  in 
widening  ripples  through  space  and  time,  changing 
the  vast  policies  of  nations,  engulfing  thousands  of 
humble  lives  and  hopes  and  destinies.  Centuries 
hence  the  ripples  will  still  be  washing  up  the  flotsam 
of  that  fight  on  the  shores  of  human  life.  Long  after 
the  last  survivor  has  passed  to  dust  the  echo  of  the 
British  and  German  guns  will  rumble  in  ears  not 
yet  conceived.  Princes  will  hear  it  in  the  chimes 
of  their  marriage  bells;  it  will  accompany  the  scratch- 
ing of  diplomatists'  pens  and  the  creaking  wheels  of 
the  pioneers'  ox-wagon.  It  will  sound  above  the 
clatter  of  Baltic  ship-yards  and  in  the  silence  of  the 
desert  where  the  caravan  routes  stretch  white  beneath 
the  moon.  The  Afghan,  bending  knife  in  hand  over 
a  whetstone,  and  the  Chinese  coolie  knee-deep  in 
his  wet  paddy-fields,  will  pause  in  their  work  to  listen 
to  the  sound,  uncomprehending,  even  while  the  dust 


205 


206  THE  LONG  TRICK 

is  gathering  on  the  labours  of  the  historian  and  the 
novelist.  .    .    . 

But  this  tale  does  not  aspire  to  deal  with  the 
wide  issues  or  significances  of  the  war.  It  is  an 
endeavour  to  trace  the  threads  of  certain  lives  a  little 
way  through  a  loosely-woven  fabric  of  great  events. 
At  the  conclusion  there  will  be  ends  unfinished;  the 
colours  of  some  will  have  changed  to  grey  and  others 
will  have  vanished  into  the  warp;  but  the  design  is 
so  vast  and  the  loom  so  near  that  we,  in  our  day 
and  generation,  can  hope  to  glimpse  but  a  very  little 

of  the  whole. 

***** 

The  India-rubber  Man  sat  on  the  edge  of  the 
Wardroom  table  with  his  cap  tilted  on  the  back  of 
his  head,  eating  bread  and  cold  bacon.  The  mess 
was  illuminated  by  three  or  four  candles  stuck  in 
empty  saucers  and  placed  along  the  table  amid  the 
debris  of  a  meal.  The  dim  light  shone  on  the  forms 
of  a  dozen  or  so  of  officers;  some  were  seated  at  the 
table  eating,  others  wandered  restlessly  about  with 
food  in  one  hand  and  a  cup  in  the  other.  The  tall, 
thin  Lieutenant  known  as  Tweedledum  was  pacing 
thoughtfully  to  and  fro  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth  and 
his  hands  deep  in  his  trousers  pockets. 

There  had  been  little  conversation.  When  any- 
one spoke  it  was  in  the  dull,  emotionless  tones  of 
profound  fatigue.  One,  just  out  of  the  circle  of 
candle-light,  had  pushed  his  plate  from  him  on  the 
completion  of  his  meal,  and  had  fallen  asleep  with 


THE  AFTERMATH  207 

his  head  resting  on  his  outstretched  arms.  The  re- 
maining faces  lit  by  the  yellow  candle-light  were 
drawn,  streaked  with  dirt  and  ornamented  by  a 
twenty-four  hours'  growth  of  stubble.  All  wore  an 
air  of  utter  weariness,  as  of  men  who  had  passed 
through  some  soul-shaking  experience. 

The  door  opened  to  admit  the  First  Lieutenant. 
He  clumped  in  hastily,  wearing  huge  leather  sea- 
boots.  Beneath  his  cap  his  head  was  swathed  in 
the  neat  folds  of  bandages  whose  whiteness  con- 
trasted with  his  smoke-blackened  face  and  singed, 
begrimed  uniform. 

"Hullo !"  he  said,  "circuits  gone  here,  too?"  He 
peered  round  the  table.  "My  word!"  he  exclaimed. 
"Hot  tea!  Who  made  it?  The  galley's  a  heap  of 
wreckage."  He  poured  himself  out  a  cup  and  drank 
thirstily.  "A-A-ah!  That's  grateful  and  comfort- 
ing." 

"I  made  it,"  said  the  Paymaster.  "With  my  own 
fair  hands  I  boiled  the  kettle  and  made  tea  for  you 
all.  Greater  love  than  this  has  no  man." 

"Reminds  me,"  said  a  voice  out  of  the  shadows, 
"that  Mouldy  got  rather  badly  cut  about  the  head 
and  lost  the  best  part  of  his  left  hand.  He  went 
reeling  past  me  during  the  action  yesterday  evening 
with  young  Morton  slung  over  his  shoulder :  he  was 
staring  in  front  of  him  like  a  man  walking  in  his 
sleep." 

"He  was,"  confirmed  the  Paymaster.  "In  the 
execution  of  my  office  as  leading  hand  of  the  first- 


208  THE  LONG  TRICK 

aid  party,  I  gave  him  chloroform  while  the  P.M.O. 
carved  bits  off  him."  The  speaker  rested  his  head 
on  his  hand  and  closed  his  eyes.  "Next  time  we 
go  into  action,"  he  continued,  as  if  speaking  to  him- 
self, "someone  else  can  take  that  job  on." 

"What  job?"  asked  the  India-rubber  Man,  sud- 
denly turning  his  head  and  speaking  with  his  mouth 
full. 

"Fore  medical  distributing  station.  Fve  done  a 
meat-course  at  Smithfield  market  .  .  .  slaughter- 
houses before  breakfast,  don't  you  know?  I  thought 

I  could  stick  a  good  deal "     The   Paymaster 

opened  his  eyes  suddenly.  "I  tell  you,  it  was  what 
the  sailor  calls  bloody  .  .  .  just  bloody." 

"How  is  young  Morton?"  asked  the  First  Lieu- 
tenant. 

No  one  appeared  to  know,  for  the  enquiry 
went  unanswered.  The  tall  figure  pacing  rest- 
lessly to  and  fro  stopped  and  eyed  the  First  Lieu- 
tenant. 

"Tweedledee's  killed,"  he  said  dully.  "Dead 
,.  .  . "  He  resumed  his  thoughtful  walk  and  a 
moment  later  repeated  the  last  word  in  a  low  voice, 
reflectively.  "Dead  ..." 

"I  know,"  said  the  First  Lieutenant. 

Tweedledum  halted  again.  "I  wouldn't  care  if 
we  had  absolutely  wiped  them  off  the  face  of  the 
earth — sunk  every  one  of  them,  I  mean.  We  ought 
to  have,  with  just  such  a  very  little  luck.  .  .  .  And 
now  they've  slipped  through  our  fingers,  in  the  night." 


THE  AFTERMATH  209 

Tweedledum  extended  a  thin,  nervous  hand,  opening 
and  clenching  the  fingers.     "Like  slimy  eels." 

"Some  did,"  said  the  India-rubber  Man  musingly, 
filling  a  pipe.  "Some  didn't.  I  only  saw  our  guns 
actually  sink  one  German  Battleship;  but  the  visi- 
bility was  awful,  and  we  weren't  the  only  pebble 
on  the  beach;  our  line  was  miles  long,  re- 
member." 

"I  saw  one  of  their  Battle-cruisers  on  fire  and 
sinking,"  said  Gerrard.  "I  was  in  the  top.  And 
all  night  long  our  Destroyers  were  attacking  them. 
Two  big  ships  blew  up  during  the  night."  He  cut 
a  hunk  of  bread  and  spread  it  thickly  with  marma- 
lade. uWe  must  have  knocked  seven-bells  out  of 
'em.  And  we  didn't  lose  a  single  Battleship." 

"Must  have  lost  a  Battle-cruiser  or  two,  though," 
said  the  Engineer  Lieutenant,  sitting  with  his  head 
between  his  hands  and  his  forefingers  propping  open 
his  eyelids.  "Damn  it,  they  fought  the  whole  Ger- 
man Fleet  single-handed  till  we  arrived !  Must  have 
.  .  ."  His  voice  trailed  off  and  his  fingers  released 
his  eye-lids  which  closed  instantly.  His  chin  dropped 
on  to  his  chest,  and  he  slept. 

"Any  other  officer  scuppered  besides  Tweedle- 
dee?"  asked  the  Major  of  Marines.  "What's  up 
with  your  head,  Number  One?" 

"Only  scratched  by  a  splinter.  A  nearish  thing. 
I  haven't  heard  of  anybody  else.  We  really  got  off 
very  lightly  considering  they  found  our  range."  The 
First  Lieutenant  clumped  off  towards  the  door.  "Now 


210  THE  LONG  TRICK 

I  must  go  and  see  about  clearing  up  the  mess.     I 
reckon  it's  all  over  bar  the  shouting." 

As  he  went  out  Thorogood  entered  the  Ward- 
room. "Would  anyone  like  a  nice  beef  lozenge?"  he 
enquired,  removing  a  packet  from  his  pocket.  "Owner 
having  no  further  use  for  same." 

"Where  are  we  going?"  asked  the  Paymaster. 
"I  should  like  to  go  home,  I  think,  if  it  could  be 
arranged  conveniently,  James?" 

"Not  to-day,"  was  the  reply.  "We're  looking 
for  the  lame  ducks  on  the  scene  of  yesterday's  action. 
It's  very  rough  and  blowing  like  blue  blazes,  so  I 
don't  §uppose  there  are  many  lame  ducks  left  afloat — 
poor  devils.  .  .  .  With  any  luck  we  ought  to  get  in 
to-morrow  morning,  though." 

The  sleeping  figure  with  the  outstretched  arms 
suddenly  raised  his  head  and  blinked  at  Thoro- 
good. "Where's  the  elusive  Hun?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"  'Opped  it,"  was  the  reply.  "Otherwise 
vamoosed " 

"Singing  Tm  afraid  to  go  home  in  the  dark,' ' 
interposed  the  India-rubber  Man  dryly.  He  got  down 
off  the  table  and  stretched  his  arms.    "Well,  I  shan't 
be  sorry  to  get  some  sleep." 

"Sleep !"  echoed  Thorogood.  "You  ought  to  see 
the  stokers'  mess-deck.  The  watch-off  have  just  come 
up  from  below  after  sixteen  hours  in  the  stokeholds. 
They're  lying  sprawling  all  over  the  deck  like  a  lot 
of  black  corpses — just  all  in." 


THE  AFTERMATH  2 1 1 

Tweedledum  sat  down  on  the  corner  of  the  table 
vacated  by  the  India-rubber  Man. 

"I  wish  I  knew  exactly  how  many  of  them  we  did 
sink  before  the  Commander-in-Chief  called  off  the 
Destroyers  this  morning,"  he  said  plaintively. 

"So  would  a  lot  of  people,"  replied  Thorogood. 
"We're  three  hundred  miles  from  home,  and  there's 
every  reason  to  suppose  there  are  one  or  two  sub- 
marines and  mines  on  the  way.  Those  of  us  who 
get  back  will  probably  find  out  all  we  want  to  know 
in  time.  I  shouldn't  worry,  Tweedledum.  In  fact, 
I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't  get  a  bit  of  sleep  while 
you  can." 

"By  jove!"  said  Gerrard  as  a  sudden  thought 
struck  him.  "I  wonder  if  they  know  all  about  it 
at  home  yet.  Won't  our  people  be  bucked!" 

"And  the  papers,"  added  the  Captain  of 
Marines.  "Can't  you  hear  the  paper-boys  yelling, 
'Speshul  Edition!  Great  Naval  Victory!'  My  word, 
I'd  like  to  be  in  town  when  the  news  comes  out." 
He  considered  the  mental  picture  his  imagination  had 
conjured  up.  "I  think  I  should  get  tight  .  .  .  !" 
he  said. 


The  village  street  had  a  curiously  deserted  air 
when  Betty  walked  up  it  on  her  way  to  the  post 
office.  The  mail  train  had  passed  through  about 
an  hour  before,  and  as  a  rule  about  this  time  the 
tenants  of  the  rooms  and  cottages  on  the  hill-side 


212  THE  LONG  TRICK 

made  their  way  to  the  post  office  at  the  corner  to 
collect  their  letters  and  chat  in  twos  and  threes 
round  the  windows  of  the  little  shops. 

In  the  distance  Betty  saw  a  little  group  gathered 
in  front  of  the  boards  that  displayed  the  contents 
bill  of  the  morning  paper  before  the  windows  of 
the  village  stationer's.  Recognising  Eileen  Caven- 
dish, Betty  quickened  her  pace,  but  as  she  drew 
near  the  group  dispersed  and  Mrs.  Cavendish  entered 
the  shop.  Betty  stopped  for  an  instant  as  the  flaring 
letters  on  the  poster  became  visible,  stared,  took  a 
couple  of  paces  and  stopped  again  opposite  the 
boards;  then  she  gave  a  little  gasp,  and  with  a 
thumping  heart  entered  the  low  doorway  of  the 
little  shop.  The  next  moment  she  collided  with 
Eileen  Cavendish  who  was  blundering  out,  holding 
an  open  newspaper  in  front  of  her.  Her  face  was 
white  under  the  shadow  of  her  broad-brimmed  hat, 
and  her  blue  eyes  like  those  of  a  terrified  child. 

"Have  you  heard?"  she  said,  and  thrust  the  sheet 
under  Betty's  eyes.  "There's  been  a  big  action.  .  .  .., 
Our  losses  are  published,  but  no  details." 

"Names?"  cried  Betty.    "Oh,  let  me  see  ...  !" 

"Only  the  ships  that  have  gone  down.  Our  hus- 
bands' ships  aren't  mentioned." 

"Wait  while  I  get  a  paper,"  said  Betty.  "I 
shan't  be  a  second.  What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

The  other  considered  a  moment.  "I  shall  go 
and  see  Mrs.  Gascoigne,"  she  replied.  "Will  you 
come  too?  She  may  have  heard  something." 


THE  AFTERMATH  213 

Betty  bought  her  paper  and  rejoined  Eileen  Cav- 
endish in  the  street. 

(Toor  Mrs.  Thatcher  ..."  she  said.  "Did 
you  see?  Her  husband's  Destroyer " 

"I  know.  And  there  are  others,  too.  There 
must  be  five  or  six  wives  up  here  whose  ships  have 

gone Oh,  it's  too  dreadful  .  .  ."  She  was 

silent  a  moment  while  her  merciless  imagination  ran 
riot.  "I  couldn't  bear  it!"  she  said  piteously.  "I 
couldn't  bear  it !  I  didn't  whine  when  Barbara  was 
taken.  I  thought  I  might  have  another  baby.  .  .  .. 
But  I  couldn't  have  another  Bill." 

"Hush,"  said  Betty,  as  if  soothing  a  child.  "We 
don't  know  yet.  We  musn't  take  the  worst  for 
granted  till  we  know.  I  expect  we  should  have  heard 
by  now  if — if "  She  couldn't  finish  the  sentence. 

They  reached  the  door  of  Mrs.  Gascoigne's  lodg- 
ings and  the  landlady  opened  the  door.  Her  round, 
good-natured  face  wore  an  air  of  concern. 

"She's  just  awa'  to  Mrs.  Thatcher,  west  yonder. 
Will  ye  no'  step  inside  and  bide  a  wee?  She'll  no1 
be  long,  a'm  thinkin'." 

She  preceded  them  into  the  low-ceilinged  par- 
lour, with  the  horsehair-covered  sofa  and  the  Family 
Bible  on  the  little  table  in  the  window,  that  had  been 
a  haven  to  so  many  faint-hearted  ones  during  the  past 
two  years. 

"Ye'll  have  heard  the  news?"  she  asked.  "There's 
been  an  action.  Mrs.  Thatcher's  man's  gone  down, 
and  Mrs.  Gascoigne,  she's  awa'  to  bring  her  a  bit 


2i4  THE  LONG  TRICK 

comfort  like."  She  surveyed  the  visitors  sympathet- 
ically. "AVe  nae  doot  there's  mair  than  Mrs. 
Thatcher'll  be  needin'  comfort  the  morn,  puir  lambs." 

"Oh,"    cried    Mrs.    Cavendish,  "don't— don't ! 

Please   don't "      She    regained  her  self-control 

with  an  effort  and  turned  to  the  window  with  her 
lip  between  her  teeth. 

"Will  I  bring  ye  a  cup  of  tea?"  queried  the  land- 
lady. "I  have  a  kettle  boilin'." 

"No  thank  you,"  said  Betty.  "It's  very  kind  of 
you,  but  I  think  we'll  just  sit  down  and  wait  quietly, 
if  we  may,  till  Mrs.  Gascoigne  comes  in.  I  don't 
expect  she'll  be  long." 

The  landlady  departed  a  little  reluctantly,  and 
Eileen  Cavendish  turned  from  the  window. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said.  "I'm  a  coward  to  go  to 
pieces  like  this.  You're  a  dear.  .  .  .  And  it's  every 
bit  as  bad  for  you  as  it  is  for  me,  I  know.  But  I'm 
not  a  coward  really.  Bill  would  just  hate  me  to  be 
a  coward.  It's  only  because — because  ..."  She 
met  Betty's  eyes,  and  for  the  first  time  the  shadow 
of  a  smile  hovered  about  her  mouth. 

Betty  stepped  forward  impulsively  and  kissed  her. 
"Then  you're  all  right — whatever  happens.  You 
won't  be  quite  alone,"  she  said.  They  sat  down  side 
by  side  on  the  horsehair-covered  sofa  and  Eileen 
Cavendish  half-shyly  rested  her  hand  on  Betty's  as  it 
lay  in  her  lap. 

"I'm  a  poor  creature,"  said  the  elder  girl.  "I 
wish  I  had  something — something  in  me  that  other 


THE  AFTERMATH  215 

women  have.  You  have  it,  Mrs.  Gascoigne  has  it, 
and  Etta  Clavering.  It's  a  sort  of — strength. 
Something  inside  you  all  that  nothing  can  shake  or 
make  waver."  Tears  welled  up  in  her  eyes  and 
trickled  slowly  down  her  cheeks.  "It's  Faith,"  she 
said,  and  her  voice  trembled.  "It's  just  believing 
that  God  can't  hurt  you  .  .  ."  She  fumbled  blindly 
for  her  tiny  handkerchief. 

Betty's  eyes  were  wet  too.  "Ah !"  she  said  gently. 
"But  you  believe  that  too — really :  deep  down  inside. 
Everybody  does.  It's  in  everything — God's  mercy. 
.  .  ."  Her  voice  was  scarcely  raised  above  a 
whisper. 

"I  know — I  know,"  said  the  other.  "But  I've 
never  thought  about  it.  I'm  hard,  in  some  ways. 
Things  seemed  to  happen  much  the  same  whether  I 
held  my  thumbs  or  whether  I  prayed.  And  now 
that  I'm  terrified — now  that  everything  in  life  just 
seems  to  tremble  on  a  thread — how  can  I  start  crying 
out  that  I  believe,  I  believe  .  .  .  !"  Her  voice  broke 
at  last,  and  she  turned  sideways  and  buried  her  face 
in  her  hands. 

"But  you  do,"  said  Betty  with  gentle  insistence. 

The  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Gascoigne  entered. 
There  was  moisture  in  her  fine  grey  eyes.  "I'm  so 
glad  you  two  have  come  to  keep  me  company,"  she 
said.  She  walked  to  the  mirror  over  the  fireplace 
and  turned  her  back  on  her  visitors  for  a  moment 
while  she  appeared  to  adjust  her  hat.  "I've  been  help- 
ing poor  little  Mrs.  Thatcher  to  pack.  She  has  ha4 


2i6  THE  LONG  TRICK 

a  telegram,  poor  child,  and  she's  off  South  by  the 
afternoon  train." 

She  turned  round,  still  manipulating  hatpins  with 
raised  hands,  and  in  answer  to  the  unspoken  question 
in  her  guests'  faces,  nodded  sadly.  "Yes,"  she  said. 
"But  they've  got  his  body.  She's  going  to  Newcastle." 

"Have  you  had  any  news  yourself?"  asked  Betty. 
"We  have  heard  nothing." 

"No,"  replied  their  hostess.  "Nothing,  except 
that  the  hospital  ships  went  out  last  night.  I  expect 
the  Destroyers  got  back  some  time  before  the  big 
ships,  and  we  shall  hear  later  in  the  day.  Rob  will 
telegraph  to  me  directly  he  gets  into  harbour,  I 
know." 

She  spoke  with  calm  conviction,  as  if  wars  and 
rumours  of  wars  held  no  terrors  for  her.  "And 
now,"  she  said,  smiling  to  them  both,  "let's  be  char- 
women and  drink  tea  in  the  middle  of  the  forenoon !" 
She  moved  to  the  door  and  opened  it,  and  as  she 
did  so  a  knock  sounded  along  the  tiny  passage  from 
the  door  that  opened  into  the  street. 

Eileen  Cavendish  was  busy  in  front  of  the  glass, 
and  half  turned,  holding  a  diminutive  powder-box 
in  one  hand  and  a  scrap  of  swansdown  in  the  other. 

"Yes,"  they  heard  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Gascoigne 
saying  in  the  passage,  "I'm  here — is  that  for  me?" 
There  was  the  sound  of  paper  tearing  and  a  little 
silence.  Then  they  heard  her  voice  again.  "Have 
you  any  others  in  your  wallet — is  there  one  for  Mrs. 
Standisb  or  Mrs.  Cavendish?  They're  both  here." 


THE  AFTERMATH  217 

"I  hae  ane  for  Mistress  Cavendish,"  replied  a 
boy's  clear  treble.  "An5  there  was  ane  for  Mistress 
Standish  a  while  syne;  it's  biding  at  her  hoose." 

Betty  jumped  to  her  feet.  "What's  that?"  she 
cried.  "A  telegram?"  Mrs.  Gascoigne  entered  the 
room  holding  an  orange-coloured  envelope  and 
handed  it  to  Eileen  Cavendish.  uYours  is  at  your 
lodging,"  she  said  to  Betty.  Her  face  was  very  pale. 

With  trembling  fingers  Mrs.  Cavendish  tore  open 
the  envelope.  She  gave  a  quick  glance  at  the  con- 
tents and  sat  down  abruptly.  Then,  with  her  hands 
at  her  side,  burst  into  peals  of  hysterical  laughter. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,   "it's  all  right,  it's  all  right! 

Bill's  safe "  and  her  laughter  turned  to  tears. 

"And  I  knew  it  all  along  ..."  she  sobbed. 

"Oh,"  said  Betty.  "I  am  glad."  She  slipped 
her  arm  round  Mrs.  Cavendish's  neck  and  kissed 
her.  "And  now  I'm  just  going  to  rush  up  to  my 
rooms  to  get  my  message."  She  paused  on  her  way 
to  the  door.  "Mrs.  Gascoigne,"  she  said,  "did  you 
get  any  news — is  your  husband  all  right?" 

Mrs.  Gascoigne  was  opening  the  window  with 
her  back  to  the  room  and  its  occupants.  "He's  very 
happy,"  she  replied  gently. 

Betty  ran  out  into  the  sunlit  street  and  overtook 
the  red-headed  urchin  who  was  returning  to  the  post 
office  with  the  demeanour  of  a  man  suddenly  thrust 
into  unaccustomed  prominence  in  the  world.  Further- 
more, he  had  found  the  stump  of  a  cigarette  in  the 
gutter,  and  was  smoking  it  with  an  air. 


218  THE  LONG  TRICK 

He  grinned  reassuringly  at  Betty  as  she  hurried 
breathlessly  past  him.  "Dinna  fash  yersel',  Mis- 
tress," he  called.  uYeer  man's  bonny  an'  weel." 

Betty  halted  irresolutely.  "How  do  you  know?" 
she  gasped. 

"A  juist  keeked  inside  the  bit  envelope,"  came 
the  unblushing  reply. 


The  first  rays  of  the  rising  sun  were  painting  the 
barren  hills  with  the  purple  of  grape-bloom,  and 
laying  a  pathway  of  molten  gold  across  the  waters 
when  the  Battle  Squadrons  returned  to  their  bases. 
A  few  ships  bore  traces  in  blackened  paintwork, 
shell-torn  funnels  and  splintered  upperworks,  of  the 
ordeal  by  battle  through  which  they  had  passed;  but 
their  numbers,  as  they  filed  in  past  the  shag-haunted 
cliffs  and  frowning  headlands,  were  the  same  as  when 
they  swept  out  in  an  earlier  gloaming  to  the  making 
of  History. 

Colliers,  oilers,  ammunition  lighters  and  hospital 
ships  were  waiting  in  readiness  to  replenish  bunkers 
and  shell-rooms  and  to  evacuate  the  wounded.  All 
through  the  day,  weary,  grimy  men,  hollow-eyed  from 
lack  of  sleep,  laboured  with  a  cheerful  elation  that 
not  even  weariness  could  extinguish.  Shrill  whistles, 
the  creaking  of  purchases,  the  rattle  of  winches  and 
the  clatter  of  shovels  and  barrows  combined  to  fill 
the  air  with  an  indescribable  air  of  bustle  and  the 
breath  of  victory.  Even  the  blanched  wounded  ex- 


THE  AFTERMATH  219 

changed  jests  between  clenched  teeth  as  they  were 
hoisted  over  the  side  in  cots. 

Before  the  sun  had  set  the  Battle-Fleet,  complete 
with  coal,  ammunition  and  torpedoes,  was  ready  for 
action  once  more.  Throughout  the  night  it  rested, 
licking  its  wounds  in  the  darkness,  with  vigilance  still 
unrelaxed  and  its  might  unimpaired.  For  the  time 
being  its  task  had  been  accomplished;  but  only  the 
enemy,  counting  the  stricken  ships  that  laboured  into 
the  shelter  of  the  German  mine-fields,  knew  how 
thoroughly. 

The  succeeding  dawn  came  sullenly,  with  mist  and 
drizzle  shrouding  the  shores  and  outer  sea.  As  the 
day  wore  on  a  cold  wind  sprang  up  and  rolled  the 
mist  restlessly  to  and  fro  across  the  slopes  of  the 
hills. 

On  a  little  knoll  of  ground  overlooking  a  wide  ex- 
panse of  level  turf  covered  with  coarse  grass  and 
stunted  heather  stood  a  man  with  his  hands  clasped 
behind  his  back.  In  the  courage,  judgment  and  sober 
self-confidence  of  that  solitary  figure  had  rested  the 
destiny  of  an  Empire  through  one  of  the  greatest 
crises  in  its  history:  even  as  he  stood  there,  bare- 
headed, with  kindly,  tired  eyes  resting  on  the  misty 
outlines  of  the  vast  Fleet  under  his  command,  respon- 
sibility such  as  no  one  man  had  ever  known  before 
lay  upon  his  shoulders. 

Behind  him,  in  the  sombre  dignity  of  blue  and 
gold,  in  a  silent  group  stood  the  Admirals  and  Com- 
modores of  the  Squadrons  and  Flotillas  with  their 


220  THE  LONG  TRICK 

Staft  Officers;  further  in  the  rear,  in  a  large  semicircle 
on  slightly  higher  ground,  were  gathered  the  Cap- 
tains and  officers  of  the  Fleet. 

Where  the  turf  sloped  gradually  towards  the  sea 
were  ranged  the  seamen  and  marines  chosen  to  rep- 
resent the  Fleet:  rank  upon  rank  of  motionless  men 
standing  with  their  caps  in  their  hands  and  their  eyes 
on  the  centre  of  the  great  hollow  square  where,  hid- 
den beneath  the  folds  of  the  Flag  they  had  served  so 
well,  lay  those  of  their  comrades  who  had  died  of 
wounds  since  the  battle.  A  Chaplain  in  cassock  and 
white  surplice  moved  across  the  open  space  and 
halted  in  the  centre,  office  in  hand: 

"I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life  .   .  L." 

The  wind  that  fluttered  the  folds  of  his  surplice 
caught  the  words  and  carried  them  far  out  to  sea 
over  the  heads  of  the  living- — the  sea  where  the  others 
lay  who  had  fought  their  last  fight  in  that  grim  bat- 
tle of  the  mist.  A  curlew  circled  low  down  overhead, 
calling  again  and  again  as  if  striving  to  convey  some 
insistent  message  that  none  would  understand.  From 
the  rocky  shore  near-by  came  the  low  murmur  of  the 
sea,  the  sound  that  has  in  it  all  the  sorrow  and  glad- 
ness in  the  world. 

At  length  the  inaudible  office  for  the  Burial  of 
the  Dead  came  to  an  end.  The  Chaplain  closed  his 
book  and  turned  away ;  a  little  movement  ran  through 
the  gathering  of  officers  and  men  as  they  replaced 
their  caps.  A  loud,  sharp-cut  order  from  the  gaitered 
officer  in  command  of  the  firing-party  was  followed 


THE  AFTERMATH  221 

by  the  clatter  of  rifle-bolts  as  the  firing-party  loaded 
and  swung  to  the  "Present!" 

"Fire !"  The  first  volley  rang  out  sharply,  and 
the  Marine  buglers  sent  the  long,  sweet  notes  of  the 
"Last  Post"  echoing  among  the  hills.  Twice  more 
the  volleys  sounded,  and  twice  more  the  bugles  sang 
their  heart-breaking  triumphant  "Ave  atque  Fale!" 
to  the  fighting  dead. 

In  the  ensuing  silence  the  cry  of  the  curlew  again 
became  audible,  this  time  out  of  the  peace  of  the  misty 
hills,  gently  persistent.  Faint  and  far-off  was  the 
sound,  but  at  the  last  the  meaning  came  clear  and 
strong  to  all  who  cared  to  listen. 

"There  is  no  Death!"  ran  the  message,  and 
again  and  again,  "There  is  no  Death,  no  Death  .  .  . 
no  Death  .  .  .  !" 

The  firing-party  unloaded,  and  the  empty  cart- 
ridge cases  fell  to  the  earth  with  a  little  tinkling 
sound. 


CHAPTER  XII 
"GOOD  HUNTING" 

OBERLEUTNANT  OTTO  VON  SPERR- 
GEBIET,  of  the  Imperial  German  Navy,  sat 
on  the  edge  of  a  Submarine's  conning-tower  with  a 
chart  open  on  his  knees,  and  smoked  a  cigarette.  It 
was  not  a  brand  he  cared  about  particularly,  but  it 
had  been  looted  from  the  Captain's  cabin  of  a  neutral 
cargo  steamer  on  the  previous  afternoon.  A  man 
who  relies  upon  such  methods  to  replenish  his  cigar- 
ette case  cannot,  of  course,  expect  everybody's  tastes 
to  coincide  with  his  own. 

As  he  smoked,  the  German  Lieutenant's  eyes 
strayed  restlessly  round  the  circle  of  the  horizon. 
They  were  small  eyes  of  a  pale  blue,  rather  close 
together  and  reddened  round  the  rims,  with  light  eye- 
lashes. 

The  Submarine  lay  motionless  on  the  surface  with 
the  waves  breaking  bver  the  hog-backed  hull.  Every 
now  and  again  a  few  drops  of  spray  splashed  over 
the  surface  of  the  chart,  and  the  Naval  man  wiped 
them  off  with  a  scrap  of  lace  and  cambric  that  had 
once  been  a  lady's  handkerchief.  He  had  a  way  with 
women,  that  German  Oberleutnant. 

Nothing  was  in  sight:  not  a  tendril  of  smoke 


222 


"GOOD  HUNTING"  223 

showed  above  the  arc  of  tumbling  waves  that  ringed 
the  limit  of  his  vision;  the  sun  was  warm  and 
pleasant,  and  the  figure  on  the  conning-tower  crossed 
his  legs,  encased  in  heavy  thigh  boots,  and  gave 
himself  over  to  retrospective  thought. 

There  had  been  a  time  when  Oberleutnant  von 
Sperrgebiet  possessed  the  rudiments  of  a  conscience. 
It  could  never  have  been  described  as  acutely  sensi- 
tive, and  it  never  developed  much  beyond  the  rudi- 
mentary stage.  Nevertheless,  it  had  existed  once : 
and  in  the  early  days  of  the  war  it  was  still  sufficiently 
active  to  record  certain  protests  and  objections  in  his 
mind. 

The  mysterious  forces  that  were  at  work  in  Ger- 
many, industriously  remoulding,  brutalising  and  dis- 
torting the  mind  of  Oberleutnant  von  Sperrgebiet, 
together  with  millions  of  others,  had  not  been  blind 
to  the  prejudicial  effects  of  conscience  to  an  evil  cause. 
Imperial  rodomontade  and  the  inflammatory  Ger- 
man Admiralty  War  Orders  had  deliberately  re- 
jected, one  by  one,  the  deep-seated  principles  of 
humanity  and  chivalry  in  war.  It  -had  been  done 
gradually  and  systematically — scientifically,  in  fact, 
and  in  the  majority  of  cases  it  succeeded  in  producing 
a  state  of  atrophy  of  the  moral  sense  that  was  alto- 
gether admirable — from  a  German  point  of  view. 

In  the  case  of  Oberleutnant  von  Sperrgebiet, 
however,  these  early  qualms  had  a  trick  of  recurring. 
They  pricked  his  consciousness  at  unexpected  mo- 
ments, like  a  grass-seed  in  a  walker's  stocking.  .  .  . 


224  THE  LONG  TRICK 

And  now,  as  he  sat  swinging  his  legs  in  the  warm 
June  sunlight,  a  whok  procession  of  such  reflections 
trooped  through  his  mind. 

For  instance,  there  arose  in  his  intelligence  an 
obstinate  doubt  as  to  whether  the  torpedoing  without 
warning  of  a  liner  carrying  women  and  children  at 
die  commencement  of  the  war  had  been  quite  within 
the  pale  of  legitimate  Naval  warfare.  He  had  met 
the  man  who  boasted  such  an  achievement,  and  for 
a  long  time  he  carried  with  him  the  recollection  of 
that  man's  eyes  as  they  met  his  above  a  beer  mug. 
They  had  drunk  uproariously  together,  and  von  Sperr- 
gebiet  heard  all  about  it  first  hand,  and  even  fingered 
enviously  the  Iron  Cross  upon  the  breast  of  the 
teller  of  the  tale.  But  somehow  those  eyes  had  told 
quite  a  different  story:  and  it  was  that  which  von 
Sperrgebiet  remembered  long  after  the  wearer  of 
the  Iron  Cross  had  gone  out  into  the  North  Sea 
mists  and  returned  no  more. 

Then  there  had  been  the  rather  unpleasant  busi- 
ness of  the  boat.  .  .  . 

It  was  in  mid-winter  a  long  way  North  during  one 
of  the  few  calm  days  to  be  expected  at  that  period 
of  the  year.  The  Submarine  was  running  on  the 
surface  when  the  Second-in-Command  (of  whom 
more  anon)  reported  a  boat  on  the  starboard  bow. 
They  altered  course  a  little  and,  slowing  down,  passed 
within  a  few  yards  of  it.  It  was  a  ship's  life-boat, 
half  full  of  water ;  lying  in  the  water,  rolling  slowly 
from  side  to  side  as  the  boat  rocked  in  their  wash, 


"GOOD  HUNTING"  225 

were  five  dead  men.  A  sixth  sat  huddled  at  the 
tiller,  staring  over  the  quarter  with  unseeing  eyes, 
frozen  stiff.  ...  .  . 

Von  Sperrgebiet  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  ship's 
name  on  the  bows  of  the  boat:  it  happened  to  be 
that  of  a  neutral  ship  he  had  torpedoed  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  previous  week  during  a  gale. 

The  German  Admiralty  Orders  of  that  period 
contained  a  clause  to  the  effect  that  ships  were  not 
to  be  torpedoed  without  ensuring  the  adequate  safety 
of  the  crew.  Which  meant  that  those  who  had  not 
been  killed  by  the  explosion  of  the  torpedo  could  be 
allowed  to  launch  a  boat  (weather  permitting)  and 
get  into  it  if  they  had  time  before  the  ship  sank.  .  .  . 

Von  Sperrgebiet  had  given  orders  for  the  boat 
to  be  sunk  by  gunfire,  but  somehow  the  memory  of 
that  stark  figure  at  the  helm  persisted.  Try  as  he 
would,  he  failed  to  banish  from  his  mind  the  staring, 
sightless  eyes  and  grey,  famished  face.  .  .  . 

Altogether  it  was  an  unpleasant  business. 

Other  memories  of  this  nature  came  and  went 
with  the  smoke  from  his  cigarette.  For  some  reason 
or  other  he  found  himself  wondering  whether,  after 
all,  a  Belgian  Relief  Steamer  could  have  been  con- 
sidered fair  game.  But  he  did  so  hate  the  word 
"Belgium,"  and  there  was  always  the  theory  of  a 
mine  to  account  for  the  incident.  .  .  .  He  torpedoed 
her  by  moonlight:  a  very  creditable  shot,  all  things 
considered. 

Another  moonlight  picture  presented  itself.     A 


226  THE  LONG  TRICK 

boat-load  of  terrorised  Finns  rising  and  falling  on  the 
swell  alongside  the  Submarine,  and,  half  a  mile  away, 
an  abandoned  sailing  ship  with  every  rope  and  spar 
standing  out  black  against  the  moonlight.  In  the 
stern  of  the  boat  stood  a  mighty  Norwegian  with  a 
red  beard  and  a  voice  like  a  bull.  One  of  his  arms 
rested  protectingly  round  a  woman's  shoulders,  and 
he  shook  a  knotted  fist  in  von  Sperrgebiet's  face  as 
his  ship  blew  up  and  sank. 

The  woman  seen  thus  in  the  pale  moonlight  was 
young  and  pretty,  and  the  red-bearded  man  bellowed 
that  she  was  his  wife.  The  announcement  was  not 
an  unfamiliar  one  to  Oberleutnant  von  Sperrgebiet: 
they  usually  were  young  and  pretty  when  he  heard 
that  hot  rage  in  a  man's  voice.  Oberleutnant  von 
Sperrgebiet  made  himself  scarce  forthwith,  it  might 
be  almost  said,  from  force  of  habit.  .  .  . 

The  glass  was  falling,  and  it  was  in  mid-Atlantic 
that  they  left  that  boat.  It  blew  a  gale  next  day, 
and  the  Oberleutnant,  who  had  an  eye  for  a  pretty 
woman,  sometimes  wondered  if  the  boat  was 
picked  up. 

His  mind  revolved  for  a  moment  round  certain 
incidents  in  connection  with  that  affair.  A  German 
sailor  from  the  Submarine  had  been  sent  onboard  to 
place  the  bombs;  he  returned  with  cigars,  a  ham,  and 
a  pretty  silver  clock.  Also  a  box  of  sugar  plums, 
half  finished. 

Von  Sperrgebiet  took  the  clock  and  the  sugar 
plums.  The  cigars  and  the  ham  (the  labourer  being 


"GOOD  HUNTING"  227 

worthy  of  his  hire)   he  allowed  the  sailor  to  keep. 

But  even  Submarine  warfare  against  unarmed 
shipping  has  its  risks.  There  was  the  ever-memo- 
rable incident  of  the  British  tug,  and  even  now  von 
Sperrgebiet  winced  at  the  recollection.  They  had 
sighted  a  sailing  ship  in  tow  of  a  tug  at  the  entrance 
to  the  channel;  von  Sperrgebiet  was  proud  of  his 
mastery  of  the  English  tongue,  and  it  was  this  small 
vanity  that  led  him  to  adopt  tactics  which  differed 
somewhat  from  his  normal  caution.  He  submerged 
until  within  a  couple  of  hundred  yards  of  the  ap- 
proaching tow  and  then  rose  to  the  surface,  dripping, 
like  some  uncouth  sea-monster.  Armed  with  a  re- 
volver and  a  megaphone,  and  with  pleasurable  an- 
ticipation in  his  heart,  the  Oberleutnant  emerged 
from  the  conning-tower  with  a  view  to  a  little  pre- 
liminary banter  with  these  detested  and  unarmed 
English  before  administering  a  coup  de  grace.  He 
was  just  in  time  to  see  a  stout,  ungainly  man  tumbling 
aft  along  the  deck  from  the  wheel-house  of  the  tug. 
Raising  a  booted  leg  with  surprising  agility,  the  stout 
man  kicked  off  the  shackle  of  the  tow  rope,  and  as  he 
did  so  over  went  the  helm;  the  blunt-nosed  tug, 
released  from  her  3,oooton  burden,  came  straight 
for  him  like  an  angry  buffalo. 

They  were  not  forty  yards  apart  when  the  tug 
turned,  and  quick  as  the  German  coxswain  was,  the 
Submarine  failed  to  avoid  the  stunning  impact  of  the 
bows.  A  revolver  bullet  crashed  through  the  glass 
window  of  the  wheel-house;  von  Sperrgebiet  had  an 


228  THE  LONG  TRICK 

instant's  vision  of  a  round  face,  purple  with  rage, 
above  the  spokes  of  the  wheel,  and  then  the  conning- 
tower's  automatic  hatchway  closed.  The  Submarine 
was  in  diving  trim,  and  she  submerged  in  the  shortest 
time  on  record.  They  remained  on  the  bottom  four 
hours  while  the  sweating  mechanics  repaired  the 
damaged  hydroplane  gear  and  effected  some  tempo- 
rary caulking  round  certain  plates  that  bulged  omi- 
nously. 

But  von  Sperrgebiet's  hatred  of  England  was  real 
enough  before  this  incident.  He  had  always  hated 
the  English,  even  in  his  youth  when  for  a  year  he 
occupied  an  inconspicuous  niche  in  one  of  the  less 
fastidious  Public  Schools.  He  hated  them  for  the 
qualities  he  despised  and  found  so  utterly  inexpli- 
cable. He  despised  their  lazy  contempt  for  detail, 
their  quixotic  sense  of  fairness  and  justice  in  a  losing 
game,  their  persistent  refusal  to  be  impressed  by 
the  seriousness  of  anything  on  earth.  He  despised 
their  whole-hearted  passion  for  sports  at  an  age  when 
he  was  beginning  to  be  interested  in  less  wholesome 
and  far  more  complex  absorptions.  .  .  .  He  despised 
their  straight,  clean  affections  and  quarrels  and  their 
tortuous  sense  of  humour:  the  affectation  that  led 
them  to  take  cold  baths  instead  of  hot  ones:  their 
shy,  rather  knightly  mental  attitude  towards  their 
sisters  and  one  another's  sisters.  ... 

All  these  things  von  Sperrgebiet  despised  in  the 
English.  But  he  also  hated  them  for  something  he 
had  never  even  admitted  to  himself.  Crudely  put, 


"GOOD  HUNTING"  229 

it  was  because  he  knew  that  he  could  never  beat  an 
Englishman.  There  was  nothing  in  his  spirit  that 
could  outlast  the  terrible,  emotionless  determination 
in  the  English  character  to  win. 

Von  Sperrgebiet's  reflections  came  to  an  end  with 
his  cigarette.  He  tossed  the  stump  overboard,  and 
raising  a  pair  of  glasses  he  focused  them  intently 
on  the  horizon  to  the  eastward. 

For  the  space  of  nearly  a  minute  he  sat  thus 
staring.  From  the  interior  of  the  Submarine  came 
the  strains  of  a  gramophone  playing  a  German  patri- 
otic air,  and  with  it  the  smell  of  coffee.  The  crew 
were  at  dinner,  and  a  man's  deep  laugh  floated  up 
the  shaft  of  the  conning-tower  as  if  coming  from  the 
bowels  of  the  sea. 

The  Oberleutnant  lowered  the  glasses  abruptly. 
Rolling  up  the  chart  he  hoisted  himself  on  to  his  feet 
and  bent  over  the  tiny  binnacle  to  take  the  bearing 
of  a  faint  smudge  of  smoke  barely  visible  on  the 
horizon.  This  obtained,  he  lowered  himself  through 
the  narrow  hatchway  and  climbed  down  the  steel 
rungs  into  the  interior  of  the  compartment. 

"Close  down!"  he  said  curtly.  The  gramophone 
stopped  with  a  click,  and  instantly  all  was  bustle  and 
activity  within  the  narrow  confines  of  the  steel 
shell. 

The  Second-in-Command,  who  was  lying  on  his 
bunk  reading  a  novel,  sat  up  and  lifted  his  legs  over 
the  edge.  He  was  a  spectacled  youth  with  a  cropped 
bullet-head  and  what  had  been  in  infancy  a  hare-lip. 


230  THE  LONG  TRICK 

His  beard  of  about  ten  days'  maturity  grew  in  patches 
about  his  lips  and  cheeks. 

"A  ship,  Herr  Kapitan?"  he  asked  in  a  thin, 
reedy  voice,  and  reached  for  a  pair  of  long-toed, 
elastic-sided  boots  that  he  had  kicked  off,  and  which 
lay  at  the  foot  of  his  bunk. 

His  superior  officer  nodded  and  snapped  out  a 
string  of  gutteral  orders.  The  sing-song  voices  of 
men  at  their  stations  amid  the  levers  and  dials 
repeated  the  words  mechanically,  like  men  talking  in 
their  sleep.  With  a  whizzing,  purring  sound  the  mo- 
tors started,  and  the  ballast  tanks  filled  with  a  suc- 
cession of  sucking  gurgles. 

Von  Sperrgebiet  glanced  at  the  compass  and 
moved  to  the  eye-piece  of  the  periscope.  For  a  while 
there  was  silence,  broken  only  by  the  hum  of  the 
motors. 

The  Second-in-Command  hung  about  the  elbow 
of  the  motionless  figure  at  the  periscope  like  a  morbid- 
minded  urchin  on  the  outskirts  of  a  crowd  that  gathers 
round  a  street  accident,  but  can  see  nothing.  His 
stolid  face  was  working  and  moist  with  excitement. 

uls  it  an  English  ship,  Herr  Kapitan?" 

The  Oberleutnant  made  no  answer,  but  reached 
out  a  hand  to  the  wheel  that  adjusted  the  height  of 
the  periscope  above  the  water  and  twisted  it  rapidly. 
For  twenty  minutes  he  remained  thus,  motionless  save 
for  the  arm  that  controlled  the  periscope.  Once  or 
twice  he  gave  a  low-voiced  direction  to  the  helmsman, 
but  his  Second-in-Command  he  ignored  completely. 


"GOOD  HUNTING"  231 

That  officer  moved  restlessly  about  the  Submarine, 
glancing  from  dial  to  dial  and  from  one  gauge  to 
another;  for  a  few  minutes  he  stopped  to  talk  to  the 
torpedo-man  standing  by  the  closed  tube.  Finally 
he  returned  to  his  Captain's  elbow,  moistening  his 
marred  lip  with  the  tip  of  his  tongue;  his  face  wore 
an  unhealthy  pallor  and  glistened  in  the  glow  of 
the  electric  lights. 

"Is  it  an  English  ship,  Herr  Kapitan?"  he  asked 
again  in  his  high,  unnatural  voice. 

"Yes,"  snapped  von  Sperrgebiet.     "Why?" 

"I  have  a  request  to  make,"  replied  the  Second- 
in-Command.  "A  favour,  Herr  Kapitan.  It  con- 
cerns a  promise" — he  lowered  his  voice  till  it  was 
barely  audible  above  the  noise  of  the  machinery — 
"to  my  betrothed." 

For  the  first  time  von  Sperrgebiet  turned  his  face 
from  the  rubber  eye -piece  and  regarded  the  youth 
with  a  little  mocking  smile  that  showed  only  a  sharp 
dog-tooth. 

"Don't  say  you  promised  to  introduce  her  to  me, 
Ludwig!"  he  sneered. 

"No,  no,"  said  the  other  hastily.  "But  she  made 
me  promise  not  to  return  to  her  unless  I  had  sunk 
with  my  Own  hands  a  merchant  ship  flying  the  cursed 
English  flag." 

"She  is  easily  pleased,  your  betrothed,"  retorted 
the  Oberleutnant,  and  moved  back  from  the  peri- 
scope. "Your  request  is  granted.  But  remember  I 
shall  demand  an  introduction  when  we  return.  .  It 


232  THE  LONG  TRICK 

is  a  long  shot.  Fire  when  the  foremast  comes  on,  and 
do  not  show  the  periscope  more  than  a  few  seconds 
at  a  time.  I  will  give  the  orders  after  you  have 
fired." 

The  Second-in-Command  took  up  his  position  in 
the  spot  vacated  by  the  Oberleutnant.  His  tongue 
worked  ceaselessly  about  his  lips  and  his  hand 
trembled  on  the  elevating  wheel. 

uThere  is  smoke  astern,"  he  said  presently.  And 
a  moment  later.  uThe  approaching  ship  looks  like 
a  liner,  Herr  Kapitan!" 

"What  of  that?"  said  von  Sperrgebiet  gruffly. 

The  Second-in-Command  looked  back  over  his 
shoulder  at  his  Commanding  Officer:  his  face  was 
livid  with  excitement.  "It  means  women,  Herr  Kapi- 
tan," he  said,  "Children  perhaps.  ..." 

Von  Sperrgebiet  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "They 
are  English,"  he  replied.  "Swine,  sow  or  sucking- 
pig — what  is  the  difference?  They  learn  their  les- 
sons slowly,  these  English.  We  will  drive  yet  another 
nail  into  their  wooden  heads.  .  .  .  You  will  drive 
it,  Ludwig,"  he  added  thoughtfully:  and  then,  as 
an  afterthought,  "for  the  honour  of  the  Father- 
land." 

"Thank  you,  Herr  Kapitan,"  replied  the  youth, 
and  turned  again  to  the  periscope  mirror.  Silence 
fell  upon  the  waiting  men :  the  minutes  passed  while 
the  elevating  wheel  of  the  periscope  revolved  first 
in  one  direction  and  then  in  another.  At  last  the 
form  of  the  Second-in-Command  stiffened. 


"GOOD  HUNTING"  233 

"Fire !"  he  cried:  his  uncertain  voice  cracked  into 
a  falsetto  note. 

The  stern  of  the  Submarine  dipped  and  righted 
itself  again :  the  Oberleutnant's  harsh  voice  rang  out 
in  a  succession  of  orders.  The  Second-in-Command 
leaned  against  a  stanchion  and  wiped  his  face  with 
his  handkerchief. 

A  minute  passed  and  a  dull  concussion  shook  the 
boat  from  stem  to  stern.  Von  Sperrgebiet  showed 
his  dog-tooth  in  that  terrible  mirthless  smile  of  his. 
"A  hit,  my  little  Ludwig!"  he  said. 

The  Second-in-Command  clicked  his  heels  to- 
gether. "For  the  honour  of  the  Fatherland,"  he  said. 
"Gott  strafe  England!" 

"Amen !"  said  Oberleutnant  Otto  von  Sperrgebiet. 

The  boat  had  been  travelling  in  a  wide  circle  after 
the  torpedo  left  the  tube,  and  ten  minutes  later  the 
Oberleutnant  cautiously  raised  the  periscope.  The 
next  moment  he  swung  the  wheel  round  again  in  the 
opposite  direction. 

"Another  ship?"  asked  Ludwig. 

"Yes,"  replied  von  Sperrgebiet.  "One  of  their 
cursed  Armed  Merchant  Cruisers."  He  bent  over 
the  chart  table  for  a  minute  and  gave  an  order  to 
the  helmsman. 

"A  fresh  attack?"  queried  the  Second-in-Com- 
mand eagerly. 

Von  Sperrgebiet  returned  to  the  periscope. 
"When  you  have  been  at  this  work  as  long  as  I  have," 
he  replied,  "you  will  find  it  healthier  not  to  meddle 


234  THE  LONG  TRICK 

with  Armed  Merchant  Cruisers.  They  are  all  eyes 
and  they  shoot  straight.  No,  for  the  time  being 
our  glorious  work  is  done,  and  we  shall  now  depart 
from  a  locality  that  is  quickly  becoming  unhealthy." 
He  glanced  at  the  depth  gauge  and  thence  to  the 
faces  of  the  crew  who  stood  waiting  for  orders. 

"The  gramophone,"  he  called  out  harshly. 
"Switch  on  the  gramophone,  you  glum-faced  swine. 
.  .  .  Look  sharp !  Something  lively  .  .  .  !" 


At  seven  minutes  past  three  in  the  afternoon, 
Cecily  Thorogood,  that  very  self-possessed  and 
prettily-clad  young  woman,  was  seated  in  a  deck- 
chair  on  the  saloon-deck  of  a  6,ooo-ton  liner;  an 
American  magazine  was  open  in  front  of  her,  under 
cover  of  which  she  was  exploring  the  contents  of  a 
box  of  chocolates  with  the  practised  eye  of  the  expert, 
in  quest  of  a  particular  species  which  contained  crys- 
tallised ginger  and  found  favour  in  her  sight. 

At  nineteen  minutes  past  three  Cecily  Thoro- 
good, still  self-possessed,  but  no  longer  very  prettily 
clad,  was  submerged  in  the  chilly  Atlantic  up  to  her 
shoulders  and  clinging  to  the  life-line  of  an  upturned 
jolly-boat.  To  the  very  young  Fourth  Officer  who 
clung  to  the  boat  beside  her  with  one  arm  and 
manoeuvred  for  a  position  from  which  he  could  en- 
circle Cecily's  waist  protectingly  with  the  other,  she 
announced  as  well  as  her  chattering  teeth  would  allow 
that  she 


"GOOD  HUNTING"  235 

(a)  was  in  no  immediate  danger  of  drowning; 

(b)  was  not  in  the  least  frightened; 

(c)  was  perfectly  capable  of  holding  on  without 
anybody's  support  as  long  as  was  necessary. 

The  chain  of  occurrences  that  connected  situation 
No.  i  with  situation  No.  2  was  short  enough  in  point 
of  actual  time,  but  so  crowded  with  unexpected  and 
momentous  happenings  that  it  had  already  assumed 
the  proportions  of  a  confused  epoch  in  Cecily's  mind. 
There  were  gaps  in  the  sequence  of  events  that  re- 
mained blanks  in  her  memory.  Faces,  insignificant 
incidents,  thumbnail  sketches  and  broad,  bustling  pan- 
orama of  activity  alternated  with  the  blank  spaces. 
The  heroic  and  the  preposterous  were  indistinguish- 
able. .  .  . 

At  the  first  sound  of  the  explosion  of  the  torpedo 
Cecily  jumped  to  her  feet,  scattering  the  chocolates 
broadcast  over  the  deck.  The  ship  seemed  to  lift 
bodily  out  of  the  water  and  then  heeled  over  a  little 
to  port.  There  were  very  few  people  on  the  saloon 
deck  and  there  was  no  excitement  or  rushing  about. 
The  shrill  call  of  the  boatswain's  mate's  pipe  clove 
the  silence  that  followed  that  stupendous  upheaval 
of  sound. 

A  clean-shaven,  middle-aged  American,  wearing  a 
collar  reminiscent  of  the  late  Mr.  Gladstone's  and 
a  pair  of  pince-nez  hanging  from  his  neck  on  a  broad 
black  ribbon,  had  been  walking  up  and  down  with 
his  hands  behind  his  back;  he  paused  uncertainly  for 
a  moment  and  then  began  laboriously  collecting  the 


236  THE  LONG  TRICK 

scattered  chocolates.  That  was  the  only  moment 
when  hysteria  brushed  Cecily  with  its  wings.  She 
wanted  to  laugh  or  cry — she  wasn't  sure  which. 

"It  doesn't  matter !  It  doesn't  matter !"  she  cried 
with  a  catch  in  her  breath.  "Don't  stop  now — we've 
been  torpedoed!" 

The  American  stared  at  the  handful  he  had 
gathered. 

"Folks'll  tread  on  'em,  I  guess,"  he  replied,  and 
suddenly  raised  his  head  with  a  whimsical  smile.  "A 
man  likes  to  do  something  useful  at  times  like  this — 
it's  just  our  instinct,"  he  added  as  if  explaining  some- 
thing more  for  his  own  satisfaction  than  hers.  "I'm  not 
a  seaman — I'd  only  get  in  peoples'  way  messing  round 
the  boats  before  they  were  ready — so  I  reckoned  I'd 
pick  up  your  candies." 

There  were  very  few  women  onboard,  and  Cecily 
found  herself  the  only  woman  allotted  to  the  jolly- 
boat.  She  climbed  in  with  the  assistance  of  the  very 
young  and  distressingly  susceptible  Fourth  Officer. 
For  a  moment  she  found  herself  reflecting  that  his 
life  must  be  one  long  martyrdom  of  unrequited  affec- 
tions. The  stout  American  followed  her  with  a 
number  of  other  passengers.  The  Fourth  Officer 
gave  an  order  and  the  boat  began  to  descend  towards 
the  waves  in  a  succession  of  uneven  jolts.  The  crew 
were  getting  their  oars  ready,  and  one  was  hammer- 
ing the  plug  of  the  boat  home  with  the  butt  of  an 
enormous  jack-knife.  The  stout  American  surveyed 
the  tumbling  sea  beneath  them  distastefully. 


"GOOD  HUNTING"  237 

"When  I  get  to  Washington, "  he  said,  "I  guess 
I'll  fly  round  that  li'll  old  town  till  some  of  our 
precious  'too-proud-to-fight'  party  just  gnash  their 
teeth  and  shriek  aloud  'How  can  we  bear  it?' ' 

He  suddenly  remembered  that  his  pneumatic  life- 
saving  waistcoat  was  not  inflated.  Seizing  the  piece 
of  rubber  tubing  that  projected  from  his  pocket  he 
thrust  it  into  his  mouth  and  proceeded  to  blow  with 
distended  cheeks  and  his  serious  brown  eyes  fixed 
solemnly  on  Cecily's  face. 

He  was  still  blowing  when  they  capsized.  How 
the  accident  happened  Cecily  never  knew :  principally 
because  she  was  concentrating  her  mind  on  the  bottom 
of  the  boat  and  wondering  how  soon  the  pangs  of 
mal-de-mer  might  be  expected  to  encompass  her.  But 
the  fact  remains  that  one  moment  the  boat  was  rising 
and  falling  dizzily  on  the  waves  and  the  next,  with 
a  confused  shouting  of  orders  and  a  crash,  they  were 
all  struggling  in  the  water. 

Cecily's  life-saving  jacket  brought  her  to  the  sur- 
face like  a  cork,  and  a  couple  of  strokes  took  her 
to  the  side  of  the  capsized  boat  and  situation  No.  2 
already  described.  Here  she  was  presently  joined  by 
the  American,  puffing  and  blowing  like  a  grampus, 
who  was  placed  in  possession  of  statement  (c)  re- 
ferred to  above.  He  appeared  either  not  to 
hear,  however,  or  to  incline  to  the  view  that  it  was 
a  mere  theory  based  upon  a  fallacy.  .  .  . 

The  remaining  late  occupants  of  the  boat  attached 
themselves  along  the  sides  and  awaited  succour  with 


23 8  THE  LONG  TRICK 

what  patience  they  could.  Then  a  muffled  sound  like 
an  internal  explosion  came  from  within  the  stricken 
hull  as  a  bulkhead  went.  The  great  ship  lurched 
sickeningly  above  them  as  a  wall  totters  to  its  fall. 
Cecily  looked  up  and  saw  for  a  moment  the  figure 
of  the  Captain  standing  on  the  end  of  the  bridge; 
true  to  his  grand  traditions  he  was  staying  by  his 
ship  to  the  last.  She  listed  over  further  and  began 
to  settle  rapidly.  Then,  and  only  then,  the  Captain 
climbed  slowly  over  the  rail  and  dived. 

The  stern  of  the  ship  rose  slowly  into  the  air, 
then  swiftly  slid  forward  with  a  sound  like  a  great 
sob  and  vanished  beneath  the  surface.  One  of  the 
life -boats  approached  the  capsized  jolly-boat,  and  the 
figures  that  clung  to  her  were  hauled,  dripping,  one 
by  one  into  the  stern. 

Then  they  picked  up  the  Captain,  clinging  to  a 
grating,  an  angry  man.  He  scowled  round  at  the 
long  green  slopes  of  the  sea  and  shook  his  fist. 

"The  curs!"  he  said.  "The  dirty  scum.  .  .  . 
Women  on  board.  .  .  .  No  warning.  .  .  . "  Anger 
and  salt  water  choked  him. 

"They  wouldn't  even  give  me  a  gun  because  I 
was  a  passenger  ship.  Unarmed,  carrying  women, 
torpedoed  without  warning.  .  .  .  I'll  spit  in  the  face 
of  every  German  I  meet  from  here  to  Kingdom 
Come!" 

A  little  elderly  lady  with  a  bonnet  perched  awry 
on  her  thin  grey  hair  suddenly  began  a  hymn  in  a 
high  quavering  soprano. 


"GOOD  HUNTING"  239 

"That's  right,  ma'am,"  said  the  Captain  approv- 
ingly, as  he  wrung  the  water  out  of  his  clothes. 
"There's  nothing  like  singing  to  cure  sea-sickness. 
And  we  shan't  be  here  very  long.  He  pointed  to 
the  high  bows  of  a  rapidly  approaching  ship.  "One 
of  our  Armed  Merchant  Cruisers,  I  fancy."  He 
waved  to  the  other  boats  to  close  nearer. 

He  was  no  mere  optimist;  before  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  had  elapsed  the  boats  were  strung  out  in 
a  line  towing  from  a  rope  that  led  from  the  bows  of 
the  Cruiser.  A  hastily  improvised  boatswain's  stool 
was  lowered  from  a  davit,  and  one  by  one  the  pas- 
sengers, then  the  crew,  and  finally  the  officers  of  the 
torpedoed  liner  were  swung  into  the  air  and  hoisted 
inboard  while  the  Armed  Merchant  Cruiser  continued 
her  course. 

The  sea-sick  Cecily,  swaying  dizzily  for  the  second 
time  that  day  between  sky  and  water,  looked  down 
at  the  tumbling  boats  beneath  her  and  for  a  moment 
had  a  glimpse  of  the  stout  American  and  the  Fourth 
Officer.  They  were  both  standing  gazing  up  after 
her  as  she  was  whisked  skyward.  Their  mouths 
were  open,  and  the  expression  on  their  faces  gave 
Cecily  a  feeling  of  being  wafted  out  of  a  world  she 
was  altogether  too  good  for. 

The  sensation  was  a  momentary  one,  however. 
The  davit  swung  inboard  as  she  arrived  at  the  level 
of  the  rail  and  deposited  her,  a  limp  bundle  of  damp 
rags — in  fact  what  Mr.  Mantalini  would  have  de- 
scribed as  "a  demmed  moist  unpleasant  body" — on 


24o  THE  LONG  TRICK 

the  upper  deck  of  the  Armed  Merchant  Cruiser.  With 
the  assistance  of  two  attentive  sailors  Cecily  rose 
giddily  to  her  feet;  most  of  her  hair-pins  had  come 
out,  and  her  hair  streamed  in  wet  ringlets  over  her 
shoulders.  She  raised  her  eyes  to  take  in  her  new 
surroundings,  and  there,  standing  before  her  with 
his  eyes  and  mouth  three  round  O's,  was  Armitage. 

Now  Cecily  had  gone  through  a  good  deal  since 
seven  minutes  past  three  that  afternoon.  But  to  be 
confronted,  as  she  swayed,  with  her  wet  clothes  cling- 
ing to  her  body  like  a  sculptor's  model,  deathly  sea- 
sick, red-nosed  for  aught  she  knew  or  cared,  with  the 
man  who  but  for  her  firmness  and  mental  agility 
would  have  kept  on  proposing  to  her  at  intervals 
during  the  past  eighteen  months,  was  a  climax  that 
overwhelmed  even  Cecily's  self-possession. 

She  chose  the  only  course  left  open  to  her,  and 
fainted  promptly.  Armitage  caught  her  in  his  arms, 
and  as  he  did  so  was  probably  the  first  and  last  Eng- 
lishman who  has  ever  blessed  a  German  Submarine. 

She  recovered  consciousness  in  Armitage's  cabin, 
with  the  elderly  lady  who  had  sung  hymns  in  the 
boat  in  attendance ;  she  lay  wrapped  in  blankets  in  the 
bunk,  with  hot-water  bottles  in  great  profusion  all 
round  her,  and  felt  deliciously  drowsy  and  comfort- 
able. But  with  returning  consciousness  some  corner 
of  discomfort  obtruded  itself  into  her  mind.  It  grew 
more  definite  and  uncomfortable.  With  her  eyes 
still  closed  Cecily  wriggled  faintly  and  plucked  at  an 
unfamiliar  garment. 


"GOOD  HUNTING"  241 

Then,  slowly,  she  opened  her  eyes  very  wide. 
"What  have  I  got  on?"  she  asked  in  severe  tones. 

"My  dear,"  said  the  elderly  lady,  "pyjamas! 
There  was  nothing  else.  They  belong  to  the  officer 
who  owns  this  cabin.  I  think  the  name  was  Armitage. 
And  the  doctor  said " 

Cecily  groaned.  A  knock  sounded,  and  the  ship's 
doctor  entered  carrying  something  in  a  medicine 
glass. 

"Well,"  he  asked  brusquely,  "how  are  we?" 

"Better,  thanks,"  said  Cecily  faintly. 

"That's  right.  Drink  this  and  close  your  eyes 
again." 

Cecily  drank  obediently  and  fell  asleep. 

Twenty-four  hours  later  the  Cruiser  was  moving 
slowly  up  a  river  to  her  berth  alongside  a  wharf. 
Cecily,  clothed  and  in  her  right  mind,  stood  aft  in  a 
deserted  spot  by  the  ensign-staff  and  stared  at  the 
dingy  warehouses  and  quaysides  ashore  as  they  slid 
past. 

Armitage  came  across  the  deck  towards  her. 
Cecily  saw  him  coming  and  took  a  long  breath.  Then, 
woman-like,  she  spoke  first: 

"I  haven't  had  an  opportunity  to  thank  you  yet," 
she  said  prettily,  "for  giving  up  your  cabin  to  me — 
and — and  all  your  kindness." 

Armitage  stood  squarely  in  front  of  her,  a  big, 
kindly  man  who  was  going  to  be  badly  hurt  and  more 
than  half  expected  it. 

"There  is  a  curious  fatality  about  all  this,"  he 


242  THE  LONG  TRICK 

said.  "It  was  no  kindness  of  either  yours  or  mine.9* 
He  glanced  over  her  head  at  the  rapidly  approaching 
wharf  ahead  and  then  at  her  face. 

uFor  eighteen  months,"  he  said,  speaking  rather 
quickly,  "I've  been  like  the  prophet  Jonah — looking 
for  a  sign.  I  looked  to  you  for  it,  Miss  Cecily,"  he 
said,  uand  I  can't  truthfully  say  it  showed  itself  in 
a  single  word  or  look  or  gesture."  He  took  a  deep 
breath.  "I'm  not  going  to  let  you  tell  me  I'm  labour- 
ing under  any  misapprehensions.  But  this" — he 
made  a  little  comprehensive  gesture — "this  is  too 
much  like  the  hand  of  Fate  to  disregard.  Miss 
Cecily,"  he  said,  "little  Miss  Cecily,  you've  just 
twisted  your  fingers  round  my  heart  and  I  can't  loose 
them." 

"Please,"  said  Cecily,  "ah,  no,  please  don't.  .  .  . " 
Some  irresponsible  imp  in  her  intelligence  made  her 
want  to  tell  him  that  it  wasn't  Jonah  who  looked  for 
a  sign. 

"Listen,"  said  Armitage.  He  was  literally  hold- 
ing her  before  him  by  the  sheer  strength  of  his 
kindly,  compelling  personality.  "When  this  racket 
started — this  war — I  told  them  at  the  Admiralty  my 
age  was  forty-five.  It  was  a  lie — I  am  fifty-two.  I've 
knocked  about  the  world;  I  know  men  and  cities  and 
the  places  where  there  are  neither.  But  I've  lived 
clean  all  my  life  and  I  was  never  gladder  of  it  than 
I  am  at  this  moment.  ..." 

Cecily  had  a  conviction  that  unless  she  could  stop 
him  she  would  have  to  start  crying  very  soon.  But 


"GOOD  HUNTING"  243 

there  were  no  words  somehow  that  seemed  adequate 
to  the  situation. 

"I  know,  dear,"  he  went  on  in  his  grave  quiet 
voice,  "that  at  your  age  money,  and  all  the  things  it 
buys,  seem  just  empty  folly.  But,  believe  me,  there 
comes  a  time  when  being  rich  counts  a  lot  towards 
happiness.  I'm  not  trying  to  dazzle  you,  but  you 
know  all  mine  is  yours — you  shall  live  in  Park  Lane 
if  you  care  to — or  I'll  turn  all  wide  Scotland  into  a 
deer  forest  for  you  to  play  in.  .  .  ." 

He  paused.  "But  there  is  one  thing,  of  course, 
that  might  make  all  this  sound  vulgar  and  sordid." 
He  considered  her  with  his  clear  blue  eyes.  "Are 
you  in  love  with  anyone  else?"  he  asked. 

Cecily  clutched  recklessly  at  the  alternative  to 
absurd  tears. 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

Armitage  stood  quite  still  for  a  moment.  His 
calm,  direct  gaze  never  left  her  face,  and  after  a 
moment  he  squared  his  big  shoulders  with  an  abrupt, 
characteristic  movement. 

"Then  he  is  the  luckiest  man,"  he  said  quietly, 
"that  ever  won  God's  most  perfect  gift." 

He  gave  her  a  funny  stiff  little  inclination  of  the 
head  and  walked  away. 


Otto  von  Sperrgebiet  did  not  raise  the  periscope 
above  the  surface  again  for  some  hours.  The  Sub- 
marine, entirely  submerged,  drove  through  the  water 


244  THE  LONG  TRICK 

until  night.  After  nightfall  they  travelled  on  the 
surface  until  the  first  pale  bars  of  dawn  appeared  in 
the  eastern  sky.  Von  Sperrgebiet  was  on  the  con- 
ning-tower  as  soon  as  it  was  light,  searching  the 
horizon  with  his  glasses. 

"It  is  strange,"  he  said  to  his  Second-in-Con> 
mand.  "We  ought  to  have  sighted  that  light  vessel 
before  now."  At  his  bidding  a  sailor  fetched  the  lead 
line  and  took  a  sounding.  Together  they  examined 
the  tallow  at  the  bottom  of  the  lead,  and  von  Sperr- 
gebiet made  a  prolonged  scrutiny  of  the  chart. 
"H'm'm!"  he  said.  "I  don't  understand."  Sub- 
merging  again,  they  progressed  at  slow  speed  for  some 
hours  and  he  took  another  sounding.  The  sky  was 
overcast  and  no  sights  could  be  taken. 

This  time  von  Sperrgebiet  returned  from  compar- 
ing the  sounding  with  the  chart,  wearing  a  distinctly 
worried  expression. 

The  hawk-eyed  seaman  beside  him  on  the  bridge 
gave  an  ejaculation  and  pointed  ahead. 

"Land,  Herr  Kapitan!"  he  said. 

"Fool!"  replied  his  Captain.  "Idiot!  How  can 
there  be  land  there  unless"' — he  glanced  inside  the 
binnacle  half  contemptuously — "unless  the  compasses 
are  mad — or  I  am."  He  raised  his  glasses  to  stare 
at  the  horizon.  "You  are  right,"  he  said.  "You 
are  right.  .  .  .  It  is  land."  He  gnawed  his  thumbnail 
as  was  his  habit  when  in  perplexity. 

The  next  moment  the  seaman  pointed  again. 
"The  Hunters,"  he  said. 


"GOOD  HUNTING"  245 

Von  Sperrgebiet  gave  one  glance  ahead  and 
kicked  the  man  down  through  the  open  hatchway 
of  the  conning-tower.  He  himself  followed,  and  the 
hatch  closed.  The  helmsman  was  standing,  staring 
at  the  compass  like  a  man  in  a  trance. 

"Herr  Kapitan,"  he  said,  as  von  Sperrgebiet 
approached,  "it  is  bewitched."  Indeed,  he  had 
grounds  for  consternation.  The  compass  card  was 
spinning  round  like  a  kitten  chasing  its  tail,  first  in 
one  direction,  then  in  another. 

"Damn  the  compass!"  said  von  Sperrgebiet. 
"Flood  ballast  tanks — depth  thirty  metres — full 
speed  ahead!" 

He  thrust  the  helmsman  aside  and  took  the  use- 
less wheel  himself. 

"Ludwig,"  he  said,  "to  the  periscope  with  you 
and  tell  me  what  you  see." 

The  Second-in-Command  waited  for  no  second 
bidding;  he  pressed  his  face  against  the  eye-pieces. 
"There  are  small  vessels  approaching  very  swiftly 
from  all  sides,"  he  said.  And  a  moment  later,  "They 
are  firing  at  the  periscope.  ..." 

"Down  with  it,"  said  von  Sperrgebiet.  "We  must 
go  blind  if  we  are  to  get  through."  His  face  was 
white  and  his  lip  curled  back  in  a  perpetual  snarl 
like  a  wolf  at  bay.  As  he  spoke  there  was  a  splutter 
and  the  lights  went  out. 

The  voice  of  the  Engineer  sounded  through  the 
low  doorway  from  the  engine-room.  "There  is 
something  fouling  our  propeller,  Herr  Kapitan,"  he 


246  THE  LONG  TRICK 

shouted.  "The  engines  are  labouring  at  full  speed, 
but  we  are  scarcely  making  any  headway.  The  cut- 
outs have  fused." 

Von  Sperrgebiet  cursed  under  his  breath.  "Stop 
the  engines,"  he  said.  "If  we  can't  swim  we  must 
sink."  He  gave  the  necessary  orders  and  the  boat 
dropped  gradually  through  the  water  till  she  rested  on 
the  bottom. 

"Now,"  said  von  Sperrgebiet.  "Turn  on  the 
gramophone,  one  of  you,  if  you  can  find  it." 

There  was  a  pause  while  someone  fumbled  in  the 
darkness,  and  a  click.  Then  a  metallic  tune  blared 
forth  bravely  from  the  unseen  instrument. 

"That's  right,"  said  von  Sperrgebiet  in  a  low 
voice,  speaking  for  the  last  time.  '  'Deutschland 
unter  Alles!' '  His  laugh  was  like  the  bark  of  a 
sick  dog. 

Twenty  fathoms  over  their  heads,  under  the  grey 
sky,  and  blown  upon  by  the  strong  salt  wind,  a  large 
man  in  the  uniform  of  a  Lieutenant  of  the  Naval 
Reserve  was  standing  in  the  bows  of  an  Armed 
Trawler;  his  gaze  was  fixed  on  something  floating 
upon  the  surface  of  the  water  ahead;  but  presently 
he  raised  his  eyes  to  the  circle  of  Armed  Trawlers 
around  him  riding  lazily  on  the  swell.  In  the  rear 
of  the  gun  in  the  bows  of  each  craft  stood  a  little 
group  of  men  all  staring  intently  at  the  floating 
object.  The  Lieutenant  waved  an  arm  to  the  nearest 
consort. 


"GOOD  HUNTING"  247 

"They  reckon  they'll  take  it  lying  down,"  he 
said  grimly.  "Well,  I  don't  blame  'em !"  He  nodded 
at  the  figure  in  the  wheel-house. 

"Full  speed,  skipper!"  The  telegraph  clinked, 
and  they  moved  ahead,  slowly  gathering  weigh.  Then 
the  Reserve-man  turned,  facing  aft. 

"Let  her  go,  George,"  he  said,  raising  his  voice. 
The  trawler  fussed  ahead  like  a  self-important  hen 
that  has  laid  an  egg.  There  was  a  violent  upheaval 
in  the  water  astern,  and  a  column  of  foam  and  wreck- 
age leaped  into  the  air  with  a  deafening  roar. 

The  Reserve  Lieutenant  pulled  a  knife  out  of  his 
pocket,  and,  bending  down,  thoughtfully  added  an- 
other nick  to  a  long  row  of  notches  in  the  wooden 
beam  of  the  trawler's  fore  hatch. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SPELL-O  ! 

LETTIGNE  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  sea-chest  con- 
templating a  large  fragment  of  a  German  shell 
which  he  held  on  his  knees. 

"Will  someone  tell  me  where  I  am  going  to  pack 
this  interesting  relic  of  my  blood-stained  past?"  he 
enquired  of  the  flat  at  large. 

The  after  cabin-flat  had  all  the  appearances  of 
the  interior  of  a  homestead  in  imminent  danger  of 
occupation  by  an  enemy.  In  front  of  each  open  chest 
stood  a  Midshipman  feverishly  cramming  boots  and 
garments  into  already  bulging  portmanteaux  and  kit- 
bags.  The  deck  was  littered  with  rejected  collars, 
pyjamas  and  underwear;  golf-clubs,  cricket-bats  and 
fishing-rods  lay  about  in  chaotic  confusion. 

"Will  someone  tell  me  where  I'm  going  to  pack 
anything?"  replied  Malison,  delving  into  the  in- 
most recesses  of  his  chest.  "Fancy  being  told  to  pack 
and  get  away  on  leave  and  given  an  hour  to  do  it 
in!  It  isn't  decent.  It  always  takes  me  a  week  to 
find  my  gear." 

"Well,  you'd  better  buck  up,"  interposed  the 
Senior  Midshipman.  "The  boat  leaves  in  ten  min- 


utes." 


248 


SPELL-0 !  249 

"Help !"  ejaculated  Lettigne.  "I  don't  care,"  he 
added.  "I'm  not  going  without  my  blinking  trophy." 
He  removed  a  pair  of  boots  from  the  interior  of 
an  apoplectic-looking  kit-bag  and  substituted  the 
jagged  piece  of  metal.  "It  weighs  about  half  a  ton, 
but  it  very  nearly  bagged  Little  Willie,  and  I  want 
my  people  to  see  it."  He  tugged  and  strained  at 
the  straps.  "Make  'em  appreciate  their  little  hope- 
ful. .  .  .  Ouf !  There!  I  only  hope  this  yarn  about 
there  being  no  porters  anywhere  isn't  true." 

Harcourt,  who  had  reduced  the  contents  of  his 
suit-case  in  volume  by  the  simple  expedient  of  stamp- 
ing on  them,  had  finally  succeeded  in  closing  the  lid. 

"Never  mind,"  he  shouted.  "What  does  any- 
thing matter  so  long's  we're  'appy !"  He  brandished 
a  cricket-bat  and  sang  in  his  high,  cracked  tenor: 

"Keep  the  home  fires  burning, 
Oh,  keep  the  home  fires  burning, 
Keep   the   home   fires   burning.    ..." 

"I  dunno  how  it  goes  on,"  he  concluded,  lapsing 
into  speech  again. 

''Cos  we're  all  going  on  leave!"  roared 
Matthews.  "That's  how  it  ends.  That's  how 
everything  ends.  Ain't  it  all  right?"  He  closed  his 
chest  with  a  bang  and  sat  on  the  top  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  drumming  his  heels  against  the  sides. 
"Snooks!"  he  ejaculated,  "I  haven't  felt  like  this 
since  I  was  a  mere  lad." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  on  leave?"  queried 


250  THE  LONG  TRICK 

the  tall  sandy-haired  Midshipman  popularly  known 
as  "Wonk." 

"Do?"  echoed  Matthews.  "Do?"  He  allowed 
his  imagination  full  rein  for  a  moment.  "Well,"  he 
said,  "by  way  of  a  start  I  shall  make  my  soldier 
brother  take  me  to  dinner  somewhere  where  there's 
a  band  and  fairies  in  low-necked  dresses  with  dia- 
mond ta-rarras  on  their  heads." 

"That  sounds  pretty  dull,"  objected  Mordaunt, 
affectionately  burnishing  the  head  of  a  cleek  with  a 
bit  of  emery  paper.  "Is  that  all  you're  going  to  do  ?" 

"Not  't  all.  After  dinner  I  shall  smoke  a  cigar 
— a  mild  one,  you  know — and  then  we'll  go  to  a 
'Revoo'  with  more  fairies.  Lots  of  'em,"  he  added 
ruminatingly,  "skipping  about  like  young  stag-beetles 

— you  know  the  kind  of  thing "  The  visionary 

got  down  off  his  chest,  and,  plucking  the  sides  of 
his  monkey-jacket  between  finger  and  thumb,  pirou- 
etted gracefully  amid  the  scattered  suit-cases  and 
litter  of  clothes.  "Comme  ga !"  he  concluded. 

"What  then?"  demanded  Lettigne,  growing  in- 
terested. 

"Then,"  continued  Matthews,  "then  we'll  go  and 
have  supper  somewhere' — oysters  and  things  like 
that.  Mushrooms,  p'raps.  ..." 

"With  an  actress,  Matt?"  asked  a  small  Mid- 
shipman, known  as  "the  White  Rabbit,"  in  half-awed, 
half-incredulous  tones  of  admiration. 

"P'raps,"  admitted  the  prospective  man-about- 
town.  "My  brother  knows  tons  of  'em." 


SPELL-O!  251 

Harcourt  burst  into  shouts  of  delight.  "Can't 
you  see  Matt?"  he  cried  hilariously.  "Having  sup- 
per with  a  massive  actress!"  He  slapped  his  thighs 
delightedly.  "Matt  swilling  ginger  ale  and  saying, 
'You're  Y  dev'lish  fine  womansh.'  .  .  .  No,  don't 
start  scrapping,  Matt;  I've  just  put  on  a  clean  collar 
.  .  .  and  it's  got  to  last.  ...  All  right — pax,  then." 

"Well,"  said  Matthews,  when  peace  was  restored. 
"What's  everyone  else  going  to  do?  What  are  you 
going  to  do,  Harcourt?" 

"Me  and  Mordy  are  going  to  attrapay  the  wily 
trout,"  was  the  reply.  "He's  going  to  spend  part 
of  the  leave  with  me,  and  I'm  going  to  spend  part 
with  him.  We're  going  to  clean  out  the  pond  at  his 
place.  Topping  rag." 

"And  you,  Wonk?" 

"Cricket,"  was  the  reply.  "And  strawberries. 
Chiefly  strawberries." 

"What  about  you,  Bosh?" 

"I  shall  lie  in  a  hammock,  and  tell  lies  about  the 
Navy  to  my  sisters  a  good  deal  of  the  time.  And 
when  I'm  tired  of  that  I  shall  just  lie — in  the  ham- 
mock. Sorry,  I  didn't  mean  to  be  funny Ow ! 

I  swear  it  was  unintentional.  Matt,  I  swear " 

The  furious  jarring  of  an  electric  gong  some- 
where overhead  drowned  all  other  sounds. 

"Boat's  called  away!"  shouted  the  Senior  Mid- 
shipman. "Up  on  deck,  everyone.  Knock  off  scrap- 
ping, Bosh  and  Matt,  or  you'll  be  all  adrift." 

There  was  a  general  scramble  for  bags  and  suit- 


252  THE  LONG  TRICK 

cases,  and,  burdened  with  their  impedimenta,  the 
Midshipmen  made  their  way  up  on  to  the  quarter- 
deck. 

Thorogood,  Officer  of  the  Watch,  was  walking 
up  and  down  with  an  expression  of  bored  resigna- 
tion to  the  inevitable.  Forward  of  the  after  super- 
structure the  liberty-men  were  falling-in  in  all  the 
glory  of  white  cap-covers  and  brand-new  suits,  carry- 
ing little  bundles  in  their  hands.  There  was  on  each 
man's  countenance  that  curious  blend  of  solemnity 
and  ecstatic  anticipation  only  to  be  read  in  the  face 
of  a  bluejacket  or  marine  about  to  start  on  long 
leave. 

A  group  of  officers  gathering  near  the  after  gang- 
way stood  waiting  for  the  boat  and  exchanging  chaff 
customary  to  such  an  occasion. 

"Here  come  the  Snotties,"  said  the  Staff  Surgeon. 
"Lord,  I  wish  I  had  a  gramophone  to  record  their 
conversation  outside  my  cabin  while  they  were  pack- 
ing." He  raised  his  voice.  "Now,  then,  James, 
what  about  this  boat?  We  shall  miss  the  train  if 
you  keep  us  all  hanging  about  here  much  longer. 
Some  of  us  have  got  appointments  in  town  we  don't 
want  to  miss — haven't  we,  Matthews?" 

The  Midshipman  thus  suddenly  addressed  flushed 
and  was  instantly  the  target  for  his  companions' 
humour.  "That's  right,  sir,"  confirmed  Lettigne 
maliciously.  "Matthews  is  taking  a  real  live  actress 
out  to  supper  to-morrow  night." 

"Smoking  a  mild  cigar,"  added  another. 


SPELL-O!  253 

"And  eating  oysters  and  mushrooms/'  chimed  in 
a  third. 

Thorogood  walked  towards  the  group  of  laugh- 
ing, chaffing  boys  and  men. 

"She  won't  be  long,  now,"  he  said.  "You'll  all 
catch  the  train;  I  can  promise  you  that."  He  smiled 
wanly. 

"James,"  said  the  India-rubber  Man,  "don't  look 
so  miserable !  I  know  how  sorry  you  are  for  us  all. 
But  we're  going  through  with  it,  old  man,  like 
Britons." 

"That's  right,"  agreed  the  Paymaster.  "We  shall 
think  of  you,  James,  and  the  Commander,  and  the 
P.M.O.,  and  all  our  happy  messmates  who  are  stay- 
ing onboard  for  the  refit.  It  makes  going  on  leave 
easier  to  bear  when  we  think  of  your  smiling  faces." 

Thorogood  turned  away.  "You're  funny  little 
fellows,  aren't  you?"  he  said  dourly. 

The  Young  Doctor  caught  the  ball  and  sent  it 
rolling  on. 

"We  shall  think  of  the  pneumatic  riveter  at  work 
over  your  heads ;  we  shall  think  of  the  blithe  chatter 
of  the  dockyard  maties  all  over  the  ship,  and  the 
smell  of  the  stuff  they  stick  the  corticene  down  with 
.  .  .  and  we  shall  face  the  sad  days  ahead  of  us 
with  renewed  courage,  James,  old  man." 

"Thank  you  all,"  replied  Thorogood  gravely. 
"Thank  you  for  your  beautiful  words.  Give  my 
love  to  Mouldy  if  any  of  you  see  him" — the  speaker 
glanced  over  the  side.  "And  now  I  have  much 


254  THE  LONG  TRICK 

pleasure  in  informing  you  that  the  boat  is  alongside, 
and  the  sooner  you  all  get  into  it  the  sooner  to  sleep, 
as  the  song  says." 

The  Midshipmen  were  already  scrambling  down 
the  ladder,  carrying  their  bags  and  coats,  and  the 
Wardroom  Officers  followed.  Farewells  and  parting 
shafts  of  humour  floated  up  from  the  sternsheets; 
Thorogood  stood  at  the  top  of  the  gangway  and 
waved  adieu  with  his  telescope  as  the  boat  shoved  off 
and  circled  round  the  stern  towards  the  landing-place. 
For  a  moment  he  stood  looking  after  the  smiling 
faces  and  waving  caps  and  then  turned  inboard  with 
a  sigh. 

"Liberty  men  present,  sir!"  The  Master-at- 
Arms  and  Sergeant-Major  made  their  reports  and 
Thorogood  moved  forward,  passing  briskly  down 
the  lanes  of  motionless  figures  and  shiny,  cheerful 
countenances. 

"Carry  on,"  he  said,  and  acknowledged  the  salute 
of  the  Chief  of  Police  and  the  Sergeant  of  Marines. 

The  men  filed  over  the  side  and  took  their  places 
in  the  boats  waiting  alongside,  and  as  they  sheered 
off  from  the  ship  in  tow  of  the  launch  and  followed 
in  the  wake  of  the  distant  picket-boat,  the  closely 
packed  men  suddenly  broke  into  a  tempest  of 
cheering. 

The  Captain  was  walking  up  and  down  the  quar- 
terdeck talking  to  the  Commander.  He  smiled  as  the 
tumult  of  sound  floated  across  the  water. 

"I  wonder  they  managed  to  bottle  it  up  as  long 


SPELL-O!  255 

as  they  have/'  he  said.  "Bless  'em !  They've  earned 
their  drop  of  leave  if  ever  men  did."  They  took 
a  few  turns  in  silence.  "I  hope  to  get  away  to- 
night," continued  the  Captain,  "if  they  put  us  in  dock 
this  afternoon.  When  are  you  going  for  your  leave, 
Hornby?" 

The  Commander  ran  his  eye  over  the  super- 
structure and  rigging  of  the  foremast.  "Oh,  I  don't 
know,  sir,"  he  said.  "I  hadn't  thought  about  it  much. 
...  I  think  I'll  get  that  new  purchase  for  the  fore- 
derrick  rove  to-morrow.  .  .  ^" 

***** 

The  colour  had  gone  out  of  the  sunset,  and  in 
the  pale  green  sky  at  the  head  of  the  valley  a  single 
star  appeared. 

With  the  approach  of  dusk  the  noises  of  the 
river  multiplied;  a  score  of  liquid  voices  seemed  to 
blend  into  the  sleepy  murmur  of  sounds  that  babbled 
drowsily  among  the  rocks  and  boulders,  and  was 
swallowed  beneath  the  overhanging  branches  of  the 
trees. 

The  India-rubber  Man  moved  quietly  down 
stream,  scarcely  distinguishable  from  the  gathering 
shadows  by  the  riverside;  he  carried  a  light  fly-rod, 
and  once  or  twice  he  stopped,  puffing  the  briar  pipe 
between  his  teeth,  to  stare  intently  at  the  olive-hued 
water  eddying  past. 

"Coo-ee!" 

A  faint  call  floated  up  the  valley,  clear  and  musi- 
cal above  the  voices  of  the  stream.  The  India- 


256  THE  LONG  TRICK 

rubber  Man  raised  his  head  abruptly  and  a  little 
smile  flitted  across  his  face.  Then  he  raised  his 
hand  to  his  mouth  and  sent  the  answer  ringing  down- 
stream : 

"Coo-oo-ee-e!" 

He  stood  motionless  in  an  attitude  of  listening 
and  the  hail  was  repeated. 

"Sunset  and  evening  star," 
he  quoted  in  an  undertone, 

"And  one  clear  call  for  me.  ..." 

There  had  been  a  period  in  his  life  some  years 
earlier  when  the  India-rubber  Man  discovered  poetry. 
For  months  he  read  greedily  and  indiscriminately,  and 
then,  abruptly  as  it  came,  the  fit  passed;  but  tags 
of  favourite  lines  remained  in  his  memory,  and  the 
rhythm  of  running  water  invariably  set  them  drum- 
ming in  his  ears. 

He  turned  his  back  on  the  whispering  river  and, 
scrambling  up  the  bank,  made  his  way  down-stream 
through  the  myriad  scents  and  signs  of  another  sum- 
mer evening  returning  to  its  peace.  The  path  wound 
through  a  plantation  of  young  firs  which  grew  fewer 
as  he  advanced,  and  presently  gave  glimpses  beyond 
the  tree-trunks  of  a  wide  stretch  of  open  turf.  The 
river,  meeting  a  high  wall  of  rock,  swung  round 
noiselessly  almost  at  right  angles  to  its  former  course ; 
in  the  centre  of  the  ground  thus  enclosed  stood  a 


SPELL-O!  257 

weather-beaten  tent,  and  close  by  lay  a  small  two- 
wheeled  cart  with  its  shafts  in  the  air. 

The  India-rubber  Man  paused  for  a  moment  on 
the  fringe  of  the  plantation  and  stood  taking  in 
the  quiet  scene.  The  shadowy  outline  of  a  grazing 
donkey  moved  slowly  across  the  turf  which  narrowed 
to  a  single  spit  of  sand,  and  here,  standing  upright 
with  her  hands  at  her  sides,  was  the  motionless  figure 
of  a  girl,  staring  up  the  river.  Something  in  her 
attitude  stirred  a  poignant  little  memory  in  the  mind 
of  the  India-rubber  Man.  In  spite  of  his  nearness 
he  still  remained  invisible  to  her  against  the  back- 
ground of  the  darkling  wood. 

"Betty!"  he  called. 

For  an  instant  she  stared  and  then  came  towards 
him,  moving  swiftly  with  her  lithe,  ineffable  grace. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "there  you  are!"  She  slid  her 
fingers  into  his  disengaged  hand  and  fell  into  step 
beside  him.  "Bunje,"  she  said  with  a  little  laugh 
that  was  half  a  sigh,  "I'm  like  an  old  hen  with  one 
chick — I  can  hardly  bear  you  out  of  my  sight !  Have 
you  had  good  hunting?  What  was  the  evening  rise 
like?" 

"It  was  good,"  replied  the  India-rubber  Man. 
"But  it  was  better  still  to  hear  you  call." 

They  came  to  a  tall  bush  where  the  blossoms  of 
a  wild  rose  glimmered  in  the  dusk-like  moths.  The 
India-rubber  Man  stabbed  the  butt  of  his  rod  in  the 
turf,  took  off  his  cast-entwined  deer-stalker  and  hung 
it  on  a  bramble;  then  he  slipped  the  strap  of  his 


258  THE  LONG  TRICK 

creel  over  his  head  and  emptied  the  contents  on  to 
the  grass. 

"Five,"  he  said,  counting.  They  knelt  beside  the 
golden  trout  and  laid  them  in  a  row.  "I  could 
have  taken  more,"  he  added,  "but  that's  all  we  want 
for  breakfast.  Besides,  it  was  too  nice  an  evening 
to  go  on  killing  things.  .  .  .  Sort  of  peaceful.  That's 
a  nice  one,  though,  that  pounder.  He  fancied  a 
coachman.  .  .  ."  The  India-rubber  Man  straight- 
ened up  and  sniffed  the  evening  air  aromatic  with 
the  scent  of  burning  wood.  "And  I've  got  a  sort 
of  feeling  I  could  fancy  something,  Bet " 

Betty  rose  too.  "It's  ready,"  she  said.  "I've 
put  the  table  in  the  hollow  behind  the  bush.  I've 
got  a  surprise  for  you — 'will  you  walk  into  my  par- 
lour? said  the  spider  to  the  fly.' ' 

She  led  the  way  into  the  hollow.  A  brazier  of 
burning  logs  stood  on  the  side  nearest  the  river, 
with  a  saucepan  simmering  upon  it.  Close  under 
the  wild-rose  bush  was  a  folding  table  covered  with 
a  blue-and-white  cloth  laid  in  readiness  for  a  meal, 
with  a  camp  stool  on  either  side.  From  an  overhang- 
ing branch  dangled  a  paper  Japanese  lantern,  glowing 
in  the  blue  dusk  like  a  jewel. 

"You're  a  witch,  Betty,"  said  the  India-rubber 
Man.  "Where  did  you  get  the  lantern?" 

"At  that  village  we  passed  through  yesterday.  It 
was  a  surprise  for  you !"  She  made  a  little  obeisance 
on  the  threshold  of  their  star-lit  dining-room.  "Will 
it  please  my  lord  to  be  seated?"  she  asked  prettily, 


SPELL-O!  259 

and  bending  down  busied  herself  amid  the  ashes 
underneath  the  brazier.  "There's  grilled  trout  and 
stewed  bunny-rabbit,"  she  added,  speaking  over  her 
shoulder. 

"Good  enough,"  said  her  lord.  uSit  down,  Bet, 
I'm  going  to  do  the  waiting."  Betty  laughed.  "I 
don't  mind  this  sort  of  waiting,"  she  replied.  "It's 
the  other  kind  that  grew  so  wearisome." 

They  made  their  meal  while  a  bat,  attracted  by 
the  white  cloth,  flickered  overhead,  and  the  shadows 
closed  in  round  them,  deepening  into  night.  When 
the  last  morsel  of  food  had  vanished  the  India- 
rubber  Man  turned  sideways  on  his  stool  to  light  a 
pipe,  and  by  the  light  of  the  match  they  stared  at 
one  another  with  a  sudden  fresh  realisation  of  their 
present  happiness  and  the  fullness  thereof. 

"Isn't  it  good?"  said  Betty.  "Isn't  it  worth 
almost  anything  to  have  this  peace?"  She  made  a 
little  gesture,  embracing  the  scented  quiet.  "And 
just  us  two  .  .  .  alone." 

The  India-rubber  Man  tossed  the  match  on  to 
the  turf  where  it  burned  steadily  in  a  little  circle  of 
warm  light. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "Just  us  two  ^  .  .  Hark,  Betty!" 
He  held  up  his  finger. 

For  a  moment  they  listened  to  the  infinitestimal 
noises  of  the  night,  straining  their  ears  in  the  still- 
ness. The  river  wound  past  them  with  a  faint,  sibi- 
lant sound  like  a  child  chuckling  in  its  sleep;  an  owl 
hooted  somewhere  in  the  far-off  sanctuary  of  the 


260  THE  LONG  TRICK 

trees.  Betty  drew  her  breath  with  a  little  sigh  that 
was  no  louder  than  the  rustle  of  the  bat's  wings 
overhead.  The  match  burning  on  the  grass  beside 
them  flared  suddenly  and  went  out. 

"You  know,"  said  the  India-rubber  Man  pres- 
ently, "I  was  thinking  to-night — up  there,  along  the 
river^ — how  good  it  all  is,  this  little  old  England  of 
ours.  I  sat  on  a  big  boulder  and  watched  a  child 
in  the  distance  driving  some  cows  across  a  meadow 
to  be  milked.  .  .  .  There  wasn't  a  leaf  stirring, 
and  the  only  sounds  were  the  sleepy  noises  of  the 
river.  ...  It  was  all  just  too  utterly  peaceful  and 
good."  The  India-rubber  Man  puffed  his  pipe  in 
silence  for  a  moment.  "It  struck  me  then,"  he  went 
on  in  his  slow,  even  tones,  "that  any  price  we  can 
pay — any  amount  of  sacrifice,  hardship,  discomfort 
— is  nothing  as  long  as  we  keep  this  quiet  peace  un- 
disturbed. ..."  Again  he  lapsed  into  silence,  as  if 
following  some  deep  train  of  thought;  the  sound  of 
the  donkey  cropping  the  grass  came  from  the  other 
side  of  the  bush. 

"One  doesn't  think  about  it  in  that  way — up 
there,"  he  jerked  his  head  towards  the  North.  "You 
just  do  your  job  for  the  job's  sake,  as  one  does  in 
peace-time.  Even  the  fellows  who  die,  die  as  if  it 
all  came  in  the  day's  work."  His  mind  reverted  to 
its  original  line  of  thought.  "But  even  dying  is  a 
little  thing  as  long  as  all  this  is  undefiled."  He 
smoked  in  silence  for  a  minute. 

"Death!"  he  continued  jerkily,  as  if  feeling  for 


SPELL-O!  261 

his  ideas  at  an  unaccustomed  depth.  "I've  seen  so 
much  of  Death,  Betty:  in  every  sort  of  guise  and 
disguise,  and  I'm  not  sure  that  he  isn't  only  the 
biggest  impostor,  really.  A  bogie  to  frighten  happi- 
ness. ...  A  turnip-mask  with  a  candle  inside,  stuck 
up  just  round  some  corner  along  the  road  of  life." 

uYou  never  know  which  corner  it  is,  though," 
said  Betty.  She  nodded  her  head  like  a  wise  child. 
"That's  why  it's  frightening — sometimes." 

For  a  while  longer  they  talked  with  their  elbows 
on  the  table  and  their  faces  very  close,  exchanging 
those  commonplace  yet  intimate  scraps  of  philosophy 
which  only  two  can  share.  Then  the  India-rubber 
Man  fetched  a  pail  of  water  from  the  river,  and 
together  they  washed  up. 

"I  met  Clavering  away  up  the  river  this  evening," 
he  said  presently.  uHe  said  they'd  come  down  after 
supper  and  bring  the  banjo,"  and  as  he  spoke  they 
heard  the  murmur  of  voices  along  the  river  bank. 
Two  figures  loomed  up  out  of  the  darkness  and 
entered  the  circle  of  light  from  the  brazier. 

"Good  hunting!"  said  a  girl's  clear  voice. 
"Garry  was  feeling  musically  inclined,  and  so  we 
brought  the  Joe  with  us." 

The  India-rubber  Man  returned  from  the  direc- 
tion of  the  tent,  carrying  rugs  and  coats  which  he 
proceeded  to  spread  on  the  ground. 

"We're  pushing  on  to-morrow,"  continued  Clav- 
ering's  deep  voice.  "There  are  some  lakes  in  the  hills 
we  want  to  reach  while  this  fine  weather  lasts.  What 


262  THE  LONG  TRICK 

are  your  movements,  Standish?  Keep  somewhere 
near  us,  so  that  we  can  have  our  sing-songs  of  an 
evening  sometimes/1 

"We'll  follow,"  replied  the  India-rubber  Man. 
"Nebuchadnezzar  ought  to  have  a  day's  rest  to- 
morrow, and  then  we'll  pick  up  the  trail.  Your  old 
caravan  oughtn't  to  be  difficult  to  trace.  Did  you 
do  any  good  on  the  river  this  evening  .  .  .  ?" 

They  settled  down  among  the  rugs,  and  for  a 
while  the  conversation  ran  on  the  day's  doings.  Then 
Etta  Clavering  drew  her  banjo  from  its  case.  "What 
shall  we  have?"  she  asked,  fingering  the  strings:  and 
without  further  pause  she  struck  a  few  opening 
chords  and  began  in  her  musical  contralto : 

"Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky  .    .   ." 

The  slow,  haunting  melody  floated  out  into  the  night, 
and  Betty,  seated  beside  her  husband,  felt  his  hand 
close  firmly  over  hers  as  it  rested  among  the  folds 
of  the  rug.  The  warm  glow  of  the  fire  lit  the  faces 
of  the  quartette  and  the  white  throat  of  the  singer. 

"Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  the  sea, 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill.  .   .   ." 

The  last  notes  died  away,  and  before  anyone 
could  speak  the  banjo  broke  out  into  a  gay  jingle, 
succeeded  in  turn  by  an  old  familiar  ballad  in  which 
they  all  joined.  Then  Clavering  cleared  his  throat 
and  in  his  deep  baritone  sang: 


SPELL-0!  263 

"Sing  me  a  song  of  a  lad  that  is  gone 
Over  the  hills  to  Skye," 

A  few  coon  songs  followed,  with  the  four  voices, 
contralto  and  baritone,  tenor  and  soprano,  blending 
in  harmony.  Then  Etta  Clavering  drew  her  fingers 
across  the  strings  and  declared  it  was  time  for  bed. 

"One  more,"  pleaded  Betty.  "Just  one  more. 
You  two  sing." 

Etta  Clavering  turned  her  head  and  eyed  her 
husband;  her  eyes  glittered  in  the  starlight  and  there 
was  a  gleam  of  white  teeth  as  she  smiled.  She  tenta- 
tively thrummed  a  few  chords. 

"Shall  we,  Garry?" 

Her  husband  nodded.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "that 
one."  He  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth.  "Go 
ahead.  .  .  ,.," 

So  together  they  sang  "Friendship,"  that  perfec- 
tion of  old-world  romance  which  is  beyond  all  art  in 
its  utter  simplicity. 

The  banjo  was  restored  to  its  case  at  length,  and 
the  singers  rose  to  depart.  Farewells  were  exchanged 
and  plans  for  the  future,  while  the  four  strolled 
together  to  the  edge  of  the  woods. 

"Well,"  said  Clavering,  "we  shall  see  you  again 
the  day  after  to-morrow,  with  any  luck." 

Etta  Clavering  turned  towards  Betty.  "Isn't  it 
nice  to  dare  to  look  ahead  as  far  as  that?"  she  asked 
with  a  little  smile.  "Fancy!  The  day  after  to- 
morrow! Good  night — good  night!" 

Betty  and  the  India-rubber  Man  stood  looking 


264  THE  LONG  TRICK 

after  them  until  they  were  swallowed  by  the  darkness. 
Then  he  placed  his  arm  round  his  wife's  shoulders, 
and  together  they  retraced  their  steps  across  the 
clearing  towards  the  tent. 


"This  is  the  place,"  said  the  Young  Doctor.  He 
piloted  his  companion  aside  from  the  throng  of  Re- 
gent Street  traffic  and  turned  in  at  a  narrow  doorway. 
Pushing  open  a  swing  door  that  bore  on  its  glass 
panels  the  inscription  "MEMBERS  ONLY,"  he  motioned 
the  First  Lieutenant  up  a  flight  of  stairs.  uYou 
wait  till  you  get  to  the  top,  Number  One,"  he  said, 
"you'll  forget  you're  ashore." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  First  Lieutenant  as  they 
ascended,  "but  I  don't  know  that  I  altogether  want 
to  forget  it." 

They  had  reached  the  threshold  of  a  small  ante- 
room hung  about  with  war-trophies  and  crowded 
with  Naval  officers.  The  majority  were  standing 
about  chatting  eagerly  in  twros  and  threes,  while  a 
girl  with  a  tray  of  glasses  steered  a  devious  course 
through  the  crush  and  took  or  fulfilled  orders. 
Through  an  open  doorway  beyond  they  caught  a 
glimpse  of  more  uniformed  figures,  and  the  tobacco- 
laden  air  hummed  with  Navy-talk  and  laughter. 

The  Young  Doctor  hung  his  cap  and  stick  on 
the  end  of  the  banisters  and  elbowed  his  way  to 
the  doorway,  exchanging  greetings  with  acquaint- 
ances. 


SPELL-0!  265 

"Come  in  here,"  he  said  over  his  shoulder  to 
the  First  Lieutenant,  "and  let's  see  if  there's  anyone 
from  the  ship — hullo!  I  didn't  expect  to  see 
this — — "  He  made  a  gesture  towards  the  empty 
fireplace.  There,  seated  upon  the  club-fender,  with 
his  right  hand  in  his  trousers  pocket  and  his  expres- 
sion of  habitual  gloom  upon  his  countenance,  sat 
Mouldy  Jakes.  His  left  sleeve  hung  empty  at  his 
side,  and  from  the  breast  of  a  conspicuously  new- 
looking  monkey-jacket  protruded  a  splint  swathed 
about  in  bandages.  A  newly-healed  scar  showed 
pink  across  his  scalp. 

A  laughing  semi-circle  sat  round  apparently  in 
the  enjoyment  of  some  anecdote  just  concluded.  A 
Submarine  Commander  of  almost  legendary  fame 
stood  by  the  fender  examining  something  in  a  little 
morocco  case.  Mouldy  Jakes  turned  a  melancholy 
eye  upon  the  new-comers. 

"More  of  'em,"  he  said  in  tones  of  dull  despair. 
"What  d'you  want — Martini  or  Manhattan?" 

"Martini,"  replied  the  Young  Doctor,  advancing, 
"both  of  us;  but  why  this  reckless  hospitality, 
Mouldy?  Are  you  celebrating  an  escape  from  the 
nursing  home?" 

The  Submarine  man  closed  the  case  with  a  little 
snap  and  handed  it  back  to  Mouldy  Jakes. 

"We're  just  celebrating  Mouldy's  acquisition  of 
that  bauble,"  he  explained.  "He's  been  having  the 
time  of  his  life  at  Buckingham  Palace  all  the  morn- 
ing." 


266  THE  LONG  TRICK 

"Not  'arf,"  confirmed  the  hero  modestly. 
"Proper  day-off,  I've  been  having!"  He  raised  his 
voice.  "Two  more  Martinis  an'  another  plain  soda, 
please,  Bobby." 

The  First  Lieutenant  laughed. 

"Who's  the  soda  water  for — me?" 

Mouldy  shook  his  head  lugubriously. 

"No,"  he  replied,  "me.  There  was  another  bird 
there  this  morning  being  lushed  up  to  a  bar  to  his 
D.S.O.— an  R.N.R  Lieutenant  called  Gedge.  What 
you'd  call  a  broth  of  a  boy.  We  had  lunch  together 
afterwards."  The  speaker  sighed  heavily  and  passed 
his  hand  across  his  forehead.  "I  think  we  must 
have  had  tea  too,"  he  added  meditatively. 

The  Young  Doctor  looked  round  the  laughing 
circle  of  faces.  "Where  is  he?  Did  you  bring  him 
along  with  you?" 

Mouldy  Jakes  shook  his  head  and  reached  out 
for  his  soda  water.  "No  ...  he  went  to 
sleep.  ..." 

The  Young  Doctor  sat  down  on  the  fender  be- 
side the  speaker.  "How's  the  hand  getting  on,  old 
lad?" 

"Nicely,  what's  left  of  it.  They  let  me  out  with- 
out a  keeper  now.  Had  a  good  leave  ?  When  d'you 
go  back?" 

"To-morrow,"  replied  the  First  Lieutenant  with 
a  sigh.  "Buck  up  and  get  well  again,  Mouldy,  and 
come  back  to  us.  We're  all  going  North  to-morrow 
night,  Gerrard  and  Tweedledum,  and  Pills  here  .  .  .. 


SPELL-O!  267 

and  all  the  rest  of  'em.  You'd  better  join  up  with 
the  party!"  He  spoke  in  gently  chaffing,  affectionate 
tones.  "I  don't  think  we  can  spare  you,  old  Sunny 
Jim." 

"No,"  said  Mouldy  Jakes  dryly;  ubut  unfortu- 
nately that's  what  the  rotten  doctors  say."  He  rose 
to  his  feet  and  extended  his  uninjured  hand,  "S'long, 
Number  One !  I've  got  to  get  back  to  my  old  nursing 
home  or  I'll  find  myself  on  the  mat.  .  .  .  S'long, 
Pills.  Give  'em  all  my  love,  and  tell  'em  I'm  coming 
back  all  right  when  the  plumbers  have  finished  with 
me."  He  stopped  at  the  doorway  and  turned,  facing 
the  group  round  the  fireplace. 

"I  guess  you  couldn't  do  without  your  Little  Ray 
of  Sunshine !"  His  wry  smile  flitted  across  his  solemn 
countenance  and  the  next  moment  he  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
INTO  THE  WAY  OF  PEACE 

THE  King's  Messenger  thrust  a  bundle  of  sealed 
envelopes  into  his  black  leather  despatch-case  and 
closed  the  lock  with  a  snap. 

"Any  orders?*'  he  asked.  "I  go  North  at  eleven 
to-night." 

The  civilian  clerk  seated  at  the  desk  in  the  dusty 
Whitehall  office  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  passed 
his  hand  over  his  face.  He  looked  tired  and  pallid 
with  overwork  and  lack  of  exercise. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  and  searched  among  the  papers 
with  which  the  desk  was  littered.  "There  was  a 

telephone  message  just  now "  He  found  and 

consulted  some  pencilled  memoranda.  "You  are  to 
call  at  Sir  William  Thorogood's  house  at  nine  o'clock. 
There  may  be  a  letter  or  a  message  for  you  to  take 
up  to  the  Commander-in-Chief."  The  speaker  picked 
up  a  paper-knife  and  examined  it  with  the  air  of 
one  who  saw  a  paper-knife  for  the  first  time  and 
found  it  on  the  whole  disappointing.  "The  Sea  Lords 
are  dining  there,"  he  added  after  a  pause. 

The  King's  Messenger  was  staring  through  the 
window  into  the  well  of  a  dingy  courtyard.  He 
received  his  instructions  with  a  rather  absent  nod  of 
the  head. 

268 


INTO  THE  WAY  OF  PEACE        269 

"The  house,"  continued  the  civilian  in  his  colour- 
less tones,  "is  in  Queen  Anne's  Gate,  number " 

"I  know  the  house,"  said  the  King's  Messenger 
quietly.  He  turned  and  looked  at  the  clock.  "Is 
that  all?"  he  asked.  "If  so,  I'll  go  along  there 


now." 


"That's  all,"  replied  the  other,  and  busied  him- 
self with  his  papers.  "Good  night." 

Despatch-case  in  hand,  d'Auvergne,  the  King's 
Messenger,  emerged  from  the  Admiralty  by  one  of 
the  small  doors  opening  on  to  the  Mall.  He  paused 
on  the  step  for  a  moment,  meditating.  The  police- 
man on  duty  touched  his  helmet. 

"Taxi,  sir?" 

"No,  thanks,"  replied  d'Auvergne.  "I  think  I'll 
walk;  I've  not  far  to  go." 

Dusk  was  settling  down  over  the  city  as  he  turned 
off  into  St.  James's  Park,  but  the  afterglow  of  the 
sunset  still  lingered  above  the  Palace  and  in  the  soft 
half-light  the  trees  and  lawns  held  to  their  vivid 
green.  A  few  early  lamps  shone  with  steady  briU 
liance  beyond  the  foliage. 

On  one  of  the  benches  sat  a  khaki-clad  soldier 
and  a  girl,  hand-in-hand;  they  stared  before  them 
unsmiling,  in  ineffable  speechless  contentment.  The 
King's  Messenger  glanced  at  the  pair  as  he  limped 
past,  and  for  an  instant  the  girl's  eyes  met  his  dis- 
interestedly ;  they  were  large  round  eyes  of  china 
blue,  limpid  with  happiness. 

The   passer-by  smiled   a   trifle   grimly.      "Bless 


270  THE  LONG  TRICK 

'em!"  he  said  to  himself  in  an  undertone.  "They 
don't  care  if  it  snows  ink.  .  .  ^  And  all  the  world's 
their  garden.  ..." 

Podgie  d'Auvergne  had  fallen  into  a  habit  of 
talking  aloud  to  himself.  It  is  a  peculiarity  of  men 
given  to  introspective  thought  who  spend  much  time 
alone.  Since  the  wound  early  in  the  war  that  cost 
him  the  loss  of  a  foot  he  had  found  himself  very 
much  alone,  though  the  role  of  "Cat  that  walked  by 
Itself"  was  of  his  own  choosing.  It  is  perhaps  the 
inevitable  working  of  the  fighting  male's  instinct,  once 
maimed  irrevocably,  to  walk  thenceforward  a  little 
apart  from  his  fellows — that  gay  company  of  two- 
eyed,  two-legged,  two-armed  favourites  of  Fate  for 
whom  the  world  was  made. 

For  a  while  he  pursued  the  train  of  thought 
started  by  the  lovers  on  the  bench.  The  distant 
noises  of  the  huge  city  filled  his  ears  with  a  murmur 
like  a  far-off  sea,  and  abruptly,  all  unbidden,  Hope 
the  Inextinguishable  flamed  up  within  him.  Winged 
fancy  soared  and  flitted  above  the  conflagration. 

"But  supposing,"  said  Podgie  d'Auvergne  to  the 
pebbles  underfoot,  returning  to  his  hurt  like  a  sow 
to  her  wallow,  "supposing  I  was  sitting  there  with 
her  on  that  seat  and  some  fellow  came  along  and 
insulted  her!"  He  considered  unhinging  possibili- 
ties with  a  brow  of  thunder.  "Damn  it!"  said  the 
King's  Messenger,  "I  couldn't  even  thrash  the 
blighter." 

He  made  a  fierce  pass  in  the  air  with  his  walking- 


INTO  THE  WAY  OF  PEACE        271 

stick,  dispelling  imaginary  Apaches,  and  brought 
himself  under  the  observation  of  a  policeman  in 
Birdcage  Walk. 

"Any  way,  Fm  not  likely  to  find  myself  sitting 
on  a  bench  with  her  in  St.  James's  Park,  or  any- 
where else,"  concluded  the  soliloquist.  High  Fancy, 
with  scorched  wings,  fluttered  down  to  mundane 
levels. 

He  turned  into  Queen  Anne's  Gate,  but  on  the 
steps  leading  up  to  the  once  familiar  door  he  paused 
and  looked  up  at  the  front  of  the  old  house. 

"That's  her  window,"  said  the  King's  Messen- 
ger, and  added  sternly,  "but  I'm  here  on  duty,  and 
even  if  she "  He  rang  the  bell  and  stood  lis- 
tening to  the  preposterous  thumping  of  his  heart. 

The  door  opened  while  he  was  framing  an 
imaginary  sentence  that  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  duty  in  hand. 

"Hullo,  Haines!"  he  said.  "Where's  Sir 
William?" 

The  old  butler  peered  at  the  visitor  irresolutely 
for  an  instant. 

"Why,"  he  said,  "Mr.  d'Auvergne,  sir,  you're 
a  stranger!  For  a  moment  I  didn't  recognise  you 
standing  out  on  the  doorstep " 

The  visitor  crossed  the  threshold  and  was  re- 
lieved of  cap  and  stick. 

"Sir  William  said  an  officer  from  the  Admiralty 
would  call  at  nine,  sir;  but  he  didn't  mention  no 
name,  and  I  was  to  show  you  into  the  library.  Sir 


272  THE  LONG  TRICK 

William  is  still  up  in  the  laboratory,  sir" — the  butler 
lowered  his  voice  to  a  confidential  undertone — "with 
all  the  Naval  gentlemen  that  was  dining  here — their 
Lordships,  sir."  He  turned  as  he  spoke  and  led 
the  way  across  the  hall.  "It's  a  long  time  since  you 

was  last  here,  sir,  if  I  may  say  so "  There  was 

the  faintest  tone  of  reproach  in  the  old  servitor's 
tones.  "I  dare  say  you'll  be  forgetting  your  way 
about  the  house."  The  butler  stopped  at  a  door. 
"This  way,  sir — Miss  Cecily's  in  here " 

The  King's  Messenger  halted  abruptly,  as  panic- 
stricken  a  young  gentleman  as  ever  wore  the  King's 
uniform. 

"Haine's !"  he  said.  "No !  Not- — not  that  room. 

I'll  wait — I "  But  the  old  man  had  opened  the 

door  and  stood  aside  to  allow  the  visitor  to  enter. 

D'Auvergne  drew  a  deep  breath  and  stepped 
forward.  As  he  did  so,  the  butler  spoke  again. 

"Lieutenant  d'Auvergne,  Miss,"  he  said,  and 
quietly  closed  the  door. 

Save  for  the  light  from  a  shaded  electric  reading- 
lamp  by  the  fireplace  the  big  room  was  in  shadow. 
A  handful  of  peat  smouldered  on  the  wide  brick 
hearth  and  mingled  its  faint  aroma  with  the  scent 
of  roses. 

An  instant's  silence  was  followed  by  the  rustle 
of  silk,  and  a  white-clad  form  rose  from  a  low  arm- 
chair beside  the  reading-lamp. 

"I  seem  to  remember  the  name,"  said  Cecily  in 
her  clear,  sweet  tones,  "but  you're  in  the  shadow. 


INTO  THE  WAY  OF  PEACE        273 

Can  you  find  the  switch  ...  by  the  door.  ..." 
An  odd,  breathless  note  had  caught  up  in  her  voice. 

The  King's  Messenger  laid  the  black  despatch 
bag  he  still  carried  on  a  chair  by  the  door  and 
limped  towards  her  across  the  carpet. 

"I  don't  think  the  light  would  help  matters 
much,"  he  said  quietly.  "I'm  generally  grateful  for 
the  dark." 

"Ah,  Tony  ..."  said  the  girl,  as  if  he  had 
countered  with  a  weapon  that  somehow  wasn't  quite 
fair.  "Come  and  sit  down.  We'll  leave  the  lights 
for  a  bit,  and  then  we  needn't  draw  the  curtains: 
it's  such  a  perfect  evening."  She  spoke  quite  natu- 
rally now,  standing  by  the  side  of  the  wide  fireplace 
with  one  hand  resting  on  the  mantel.  The  soft 
evening  air  strayed  in  at  the  open  windows,  and  the 
little  pile  of  aromatic  embers  on  the  hearth  glowed 
suddenly. 

The  King's  Messenger  sat  down  on  the  arm  of 
the  vacant  chair,  and  looked  up  at  her  as  she  stood 
in  all  her  fair  loveliness  against  the  dark  panelling. 
He  opened  his  lips  as  if  to  speak,  and  then  apparently 
thought  better  of  it.  The  girl  met  his  gaze  a  little 
curiously,  as  if  waiting  for  some  explanation;  none 
apparently  being  forthcoming  she  shouldered  the  re- 
sponsibility for  the  conversation. 

"I'm  all  alone,"  she  explained,  "because  Uncle 
Bill  is  up  in  the  laboratory.  The  air's  full  of  mystery, 
too;  there  are  five  Admirals  up  there,  and  one's  a 
perfect  dear.  .  .  ."  Cecily  paused  for  breath.  "His 


274  THE  LONG  TRICK 

eyes  go  all  crinkley  when  he  smiles,"  she  continued. 

"Lots  of  people's  do,"  conceded  the  visitor. 

Cecily  shot  him  a  swift  glance  and  looked  away 
again. 

"He  smiled  a  good  deal,"  she  continued  musingly. 
"And  Uncle  Bill's  awfully  thrilled  about  something. 
He  was  up  all  night  fussing  in  the  laboratory,  and 
when  he  came  down  to  breakfast  this  morning  he  hit 
his  egg  on  the  head  as  if  it  had  been  a  German  and 
said,  'GoMt!'" 

The  King's  Messenger  nodded  saplently,  as  if 
these  unusual  occurrences  held  no  mystery  for  him. 
Silence  fell  upon  the  room  again :  from  a  clock  tower 
in  Westminster  came  the  clear  notes  of  a  bell  striking 
the  hour.  The  sound  seemed  to  remind  the  visitor 
of  something. 

"I  was  told  to  come  here,"  he  announced  sud- 
denly, as  if  answering  a  question  that  the  silence 
held. 

The  white-clad  figure  stiffened. 

"Told  to!)J  echoed  Cecily.   "May  I  ask " 

"They  told  me  at  the  Admiralty,"  explained 
Simple  Simon,  the  King's  Messenger,  "I  was  to  call 
for  despatches." 

"Oh  ..."  said  Cecily,  nodding  her  fair  head, 
"I  see.  I  confess  I  was  a  little  puzzled  ...  .  but 
that  explains  ..,  .  .  and  it  was  War-time,  and  you 
couldn't  very  well  refuse,  could  you?"  She  sur- 
veyed him  mercilessly.  "They  shoot  people  who 
refuse  to  obey  orders  in  War-time,  don't  they — how- 


INTO  THE  WAY  OF  PEACE        275 

ever  distasteful  or  unpleasant  the  orders  may  be? 
You  just  had  to  come,  in  fact,  or  be  shot  .  .  .  was 
that  it?" 

The  victim  winced. 

"You  don't  understand,"  he  began  miserably. 
* 'There's  a  very  important 

Cecily  interrupted  with  a  little  laugh. 

"Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear!  Tony,  if  "you're  going  to 
begin  to  talk  about  important  matters" — the  white 
hands  made  a  little  gesture  in  the  gloom — "why,  of 
course,  I  couldn't  understand.  And  I'm  quite  sure 
they  wouldn't  ask  you  to  do  anything  that  wasn't 
really  important.  .  .  .  Oh,  Tony,  you  must  have 
had  a  lot  of  terribly  important  things  to  do  during 
the  last  two  years:  so  many  that  you  haven't  had 
time  to  look  up  your  old  friends,  or — or  answer 
their  silly  letters  even  ...  at  least,"  added  Cecily, 
"so  I've  heard  from  people  who — knew  you  well 
once  upon  a  time." 

The  King's  Messenger  rose  to  his  feet  and  began 
to  walk  slowly  to  and  fro  with  his  hands  behind 
his  back.  Cecily  watched  the  halting  step  of  the 
man  who  three  years  before  had  been  the  hero  of 
the  Naval  Rugby-football  world,  and  found  his  out- 
line grow  suddenly  misty. 

"Listen,"  he  said  quietly.  "I've  got  to  tell  you 
something.  It's  something  I'd  have  rather  not  had 
to  talk  about.  .  .  .  And  I  don't  know  whether  you'll 
altogether  understand,  because  you're  a  woman,  and 
women " 


276  THE  LONG  TRICK 

"I  know,"  said  Cecily  quickly.  "They're  just  a 
pack  of  silly  geese,  aren't  they,  Tony?  They've  no 
intuition  or  sympathy  or  power  of  understanding. 
.  ...  They  only  want  to  be  left  in  peace  and  not 
bothered  or  have  their  feelings  harrowed.  .  .  ., 
They're  incapable  of  sharing  another's  disappoint- 
ment or  sorrow,  or  of  easing  a  burden  or — or  any- 
thing. .  .  ." 

The  speaker  broke  off  and  crossed  swiftly  to  the 
vacated  chair.  For  a  moment  she  searched  for  some- 
thing among  the  cushions  and,  having  found  it, 
stepped  to  the  window  and  stood  with  her  back  to 
the  visitor,  apparently  contemplating  the  blue  dusk 
deepening  into  night. 

The  King's  Messenger  stopped  and  stared  at  her 
graceful  form  outlined  against  the  window.  Then 
he  took  one  step  towards  her  and  halted  again.  Cecily 
continued  to  be  absorbed  in  the  row  of  lights  gleaming 
like  fireflies  beyond  the  Park. 

"Cecily,"  he  began,  and  let  his  mind  return  to  an 
earlier  train  of  thought.  "Supposing  that  I — that 
you  were  going  for  a  walk  with  me." 

"We'll  suppose  it,"  said  Cecily.  "I've  an  idea 
it  has  happened  before.  But  we'll  suppose  it  actually 
happened  again." 

fc  "I   walk   very   slowly  now-a-days,"    added   the 
King's  Messenger. 

Cecily  amended  the  hypothesis. 

"We'll  suppose  we  were  going  for  a  slow  walk," 
she  said. 


INTO  THE  WAY  OF  PEACE        277 

"I  can't  walk  very  far,  either." 

"A  short,  slow  walk." 

"And  supposing,"  continued  the  theorist  in  sepul- 
chral tones,  with  his  hands  still  behind  his  back, 
"supposing  some  fellow  came  along  and — well,  and 
said  'Yah !  Boo  F  to  you — or — or  something  like  that. 
Cecily — would  you  despise  me  if  I  couldn't — er — 
run  after  him  and  kick  him?" 

Cecily  turned  swiftly.  "Yah!  Boo!"  she  ejacu- 
lated. "Yah!  Boo!  Oh,  Tony,  how  thrilling!  I'd 
say  Tip !  Pip !'  " 

She,  too,  had  her  hands  behind  her,  and  stood 
with  her  head  a  little  on  one  side  regarding  him. 
Her  face  was  in  shadow,  and  he  saw  none  of  the 
tender  mirth  in  her  eyes.  "Would  you  let  me  say 
'Pip!  Pip!'  to  a  perfect  stranger,  Tony? — and  me 
walking-out  with  you !" 

"Let  you!"  he  said  with  a  sort  of  laugh  like  a 
gasp  and  stepped  towards  her. 

For  an  instant  Fear  peeped  out  of  the  two.  win- 
dows of  her  soul,  and  she  swiftly  raised  her  hands 
as  if  to  fend  off  the  inevitable.  But  the  King's 
Messenger  was  swifter  still  and  had  them  imprisoned, 
crumpled  in  his  somewhere  between  their  galloping 
hearts. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "my  dear,  I  love 
you!" 

Her  head  dropped  back  in  the  shelter  of  his  arm, 
and  she  searched  his  face  with  eyes  like  a  Madonna 
on  the  Judgment  Seat. 


27 8  THE  LONG  TRICK 

"I  know,"  she  said  softly,  and  surrendered  lips 
and  soul  as  a  child  gives  itself  to  Sleep. 

Through  the  closed  door  came  the  muffled  sound 
of  voices  in  the  hall.  Uncle  Bill  was  talking  in  tones 
that  were,  for  him,  unusually  loud.  Someone  fum- 
bling at  the  handle  of  the  door  appeared  to  be 
experiencing  some  difficulty  in  opening  it. 

Cecily,  released,  turned  to  the  window  like  a  white 
flash  and  buried  her  hot  face  among  the  roses.  The 
King's  Messenger  remained  where  he  stood,  mo- 
tionless. 

Slowly  the  door  opened,  letting  in  the  murmur 
of  voices.  Uncle  Bill  had  his  hand  on  the  knob 
and  stood  with  his  shoulder  turned  to  the  interior  of 
the  room,  apparently  listening  to  something  one  of 
his  guests  was  saying. 

In  the  lighted  hall  beyond,  d'Auvergne  caught 
a  glimpse  of  Naval  uniforms  and  white  shirt-fronts. 

".  .  .  It  ought  to  go  a  little  way  towards  con- 
founding their  knavish  tricks,"  a  man's  deep  voice 
was  saying. 

"Yes,"  said  Sir  William.  He  turned  as  he  spoke 
and  took  in  the  occupants  of  the  room  with  a  swift, 
keen  glance.  "  'And  to  guide  our  feet  into  the  way 
of  peace !'" 


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